Fugitive Leaves 

from 

Foreign Notes 



PARIS 

VERSAILLES, ST. DENIS, 
FONTAINEBLEU 






PRESS OF 

ROCKFORD PRINTING COMPANY 

ROCKFORD, ILLINOIS 

1911 



->c/\ 






COPYRIGHT 1911 

BY 

IDA SHERRATT CHANEY 



©C1.A305059 



THE WISE JUDGE 

WHOSE LAW I ALWAYS RESPECT AND 
OCCASIONALLY OBEY 

THESE STRAY LEAVES ARE 

AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OF HAPPY 

JOURNEYING IN THE WILDERNESS 

of MATRIMONY 



Preface 

Thus spake the prophet: "Get thee hence. Go into a foreign 
land. Tarry not until thou hast embezzled a fortune, but gird up 
thy loins, and without scrip or money in thy purse, go hence. 
Cross over into Europe. Spy out the city of the French, and 
bring me word again. 

"Take pen and parchment and write what thou shalt see. Send 
forth thy message unto the charitable reader, and if he scorns 
thy offering, perchance he may possess an enemy, against whom 
he cherishes a secret grudge ; and it shall come to pass that unto 
his luckless enemy he shall offer thy sacrifice, with songs of 
praise and thanksgiving. 

"Then shall be fulfilled the saying which was spoken by the 
poet Longfellow. 

" 'For those that wander, they know not where, 
Are full of trouble, and full of care ; 
To stay at home is best'." 




Marie Antoinette's Toy Palace and Old Mill in Versailles Park 
(See page 59) 



The Departure and Voyage 

When Joshua and I went abroad, our friends unanimously, 
and with a cheerful and rather suspicious alacrity, assisted in our 
"taking off". Some supplied us with candy, others with books, 
two remembered soap, several commissioned us with shopping 
orders, while all presented us with advice and infallible remedies 
for seasickness. 

After leaving the smoky atmosphere and sky-scrapers of Chi- 
cago, one draws a long breath, and revels in the luxury of a large 
horizon. We whirled through Michigan City with its huge sand- 
hills, and congratulated ourselves that we were not "doing time" 
at the State Penitentiary. We also passed through Battle Creek, 
and again congratulated ourselves because we were equally for- 
tunate to escape "doing time" at the Sanitarium, — especially 
when a man of cadaverous features entered the car, and declared 
that he had "just miraculously survived a process of slow starva- 
tion there." 

The next morning at five o'clock, according to Central time, 
or six o'clock by the Eastern standard, we were aroused by the 
porter, and the cadaverous invalid querulously complained that 
the railroad company had conspired with the authorities at Wash- 
ington, or somewhere, to cheat him out of an hour's time to which 
he was legitimately entitled. 

The diminutive toilet room was as much in demand as the 
solitary man at a summer resort, but I finally disposed of my re- 
fractory hair, and equally refractory temper, and dismounted at 
Niagara, prepared to cope with the horde of eager hack-drivers, 
who dropped in a gradually descending scale, from two dollars 
per head, to two heads for a quarter. But Joshua was grasping, 
and we preferred to walk, unless they offered an automobile or a 
grain of radium as a premium. 

After breakfast, we walked to Prospect Point, where we re- 
called our last visit, when an unknown man, standing on that 



very spot, dropped a scrap of paper, on which he had scrawled 
the lines : "God bless everybody, God bless my soul" ; and with- 
out further warning, he leaped over the parapet to his death. 
Leaped from time to eternity — that eternity and infinity, of which 
the Falls are typical — in their endless round to the sea, returning 
again in vapor, cloud, and rain, unto river and lake. 

The view from Luna Island revealed a wonderful play of light 
upon the Falls. Every tint — pale green, blue, pink, lavender, 
and glistening white — was represented in beautiful ribbon or 
streamer effect, as the mass of water plunged over the precipice. 
Our attention was attracted to a bridal couple, whose naivete 
was charming, and who evidently considered that the entire spec- 
tacle was especially designed for their individual delight. We 
afterward saw them when we rode down the gorge to Lewiston. 
They sat in front of us, hand in hand, gazing fondly into the 
depths of each other's eyes, where they probably saw the re- 
flection of the swiftly flowing river, and the frowning crags. 
Joshua and I are making our fifteenth wedding journey, and our 
eyes may soon grow dim ; hence we realize the importance of ob- 
taining the worth of our money in the original package, and we 
gaze directly upon the scenery. Besides, we wish to retain an 
impression of Niagara upon the retina of the eye, for we enter- 
tain secret misgivings that the Falls of Schaffhausen will not 
satisfy the longings of our souls. 

The ride to Chippewa should be taken before either of the 
rides down the river, if you would obtain the proper climax. The 
view of Horse Shoe Falls from Victoria Park is grand, — when 
your vision is not obscured by the mist. This park might be 
considered an effective bit of landscape gardening, anywhere else, 
but here its attractions are dwarfed by its proximity to the Falls. 
Flowerbeds in set designs, seem a bit presumptuous and out of 
place. Simple wild flowers and ivies, clinging to the rocks with 
natural grace, are there by right of priority, and their modest 
beauty is in perfect harmony with the sublimity of the Falls. 
They do not intrude offensively upon one's notice, and their sweet 
humility touches us with the reminder of God's tender care of 
the small things. 

We gazed long at Horse Shoe Falls. It is said that it is possible 



to hypnotize a subject, by the manipulation of brilliant lights, in 
constant succession. I believe that the mighty cataract in its in- 
cessant motion, with its panorama of rainbows, its clouds of va- 
por rising from the boiling, seething caldron, wields an hypnotic 
power; as the gaze is fixed, one becomes more and more fascinat- 
ed, and the spell increases until the will is benumbed, and there 
is no impulse unaffected or uncontrolled by its influence. It is 
the most exhilarating and paralyzing thing in nature. 

We moralized upon its similitude to life — the reckless aban- 
don with which the water rushes toward the dangerous brink, its 
inability to withstand the mighty current, the fatal fall, the fran- 
tic attempt to rise in mist to the height above, only to 
fall again, struggling on through the troubled waters, dancing 
in reckless glee, as the imps of hell dance, dashing against hidden 
stones, circling hopelessly, helplessly, in deep, dark whirlpools, 
breaking against huge boulders, lured within dangerous caverns, 
pushed backwards in a strong undercurrent, and so on and on, 
till finally, the rapids past, a peaceful, placid, useful stream is 
reached at last. There is need and use for it all. Some waters 
cause the earth to smile with sweet blossoms, some supply motor 
power, some relieve the thirst of a wayfaring pilgrim, while others 
are crossed by great conquering ships of state. Yes, there is life, 
rest, usefulness, and strength, beyond the fall. 

We descended the incline at Prospect Park, to view the Amer- 
ican Fall from below. We chose our time judiciously, when the 
wind was carrying the spray in the opposite direction. The 
grandeur was appalling. Again we felt the mesmeric effect ; our 
wills were arrested, and we stood upon the outmost rock, im- 
movable and speechless. Meantime the wind suddenly shifted, 
and we did likewise, but not before we were completely drenched 
with the mist and spray. We scampered over the rocks, Joshua 
trying to raise his umbrella, without sacrificing either his camera, 
or his dignity. Not being burdened with either of these im- 
pedimenta, I was the first to reach shelter. We then proceeded 
to hang ourselves metaphorically, and wished it were possible 
to do so physically, upon a clothes line. 

In the evening we boarded a sleeper, which might reasonably 
be named the Rip Van Winkle, although it evidently had slept 



longer than the traditional twenty years. It was a dilapidated 
old Wagner, trembling with palsied age and the vague uncertain- 
ties of life, having a single microscopic toilet room, in which 
thirteen luckless females were expected to perform their ablu- 
tions, and be kindly affectionate, one toward another. Sometime, 
when I have abundant leisure, I intend to investigate the reason 
why men should be endowed with four washbowls in the aver- 
age car, while one is usually deemed sufficient for women. At 
present, no man knoweth; "no, nor woman neither". 

The car was rattled in its head, and shaky in its joints. We 
too were rattled, and so packed our clothes in our shoes, and 
packed ourselves in our confessional box, and proceeded to "cover 
our defenseless heads" with dust and cinders, and inhale the 
blessed incense of smoke. We afterwards repented bitterly the 
abuse we had ignorantly heaped upon that car. It was truly 
palatial, when compared with the European product. Nothing 
short of downright profanity will fitly describe them ; but the 
European engine is more virtuous than the American, in one 
respect — generally it does not smoke, while the American variety 
is a traveling volcano. 

We are aboard the Vaderland, which turns its prow toward 
the open sea, while our eyes look backward in lingering glances 
upon our native land. The pier has vanished from view, and the 
sight of friends waving humid farewells, has already become a 
memory. We strain our vision to obtain one last glimpse of the 
Statue of Liberty, the outlines of which are faintly distinguish- 
able through the misty rain. The uplifted hand seemed to dis- 
pense a benediction, which tended to mitigate the ill-timed weep- 
ing of the skies. We were not prepared for this tearful demon- 
stration on the part of Nature, and would have preferred to have 
her relieve her pent-up emotions in some other way than the tear 
duct. Our enthusiasm, however, refused to be dampened. We 
philosophically accepted the passionate outburst of the weather, 
as an indication that we were not going to have a dry time ; and 
when the pilot withdrew to his boat, and left us to our fate, we 
waved him a cheerful goodby, wrapped ourselves in our rugs, 
and read the steamer letters from our friends. The wind and 



weather could ill brook such defiance, and the elements then 
poured the full vials of their wrath upon our devoted heads. Old 
Sol did not appear for days, except with his head bandaged in 
clouds, and we feared that he had been worsted in a game of foot- 
ball with the stars. At length he returned, — his countenance 
"pale and sicklied o'er", — and some one ventured the hypothesis 
that the sea had been too rough for him, and that he had sought 
a change of climate. We understood all, and forgave to the ut- 
termost. 

I had planned to do divers and sundry things on the voyage, 
and had left no blank for possible sea-sickness. I never had been 
seasick, and there was no good reason why I should begin now. 
That was one thing which Joshua had managed to accomplish 
without my assistance. Whenever he had invaded Neptune's 
dominion, he had deemed it a point of etiquette to sacrifice to 
the heathen sea-god. And like everything else disagreeable, he 
never wasted any time by postponing the event. Joshua disap- 
proves of that sentence, on the ground of ambiguity. But you 
know what I mean. Joshua says that my meanness is always 
evident. 

We continued to remain on deck, when all but us had fled, 
until one day a succession of impertinent seas deluged us so com- 
pletely, that we were forced to beat an ignominious retreat to 
the cabin. Suddenly, a most peculiar sensation seemed to per- 
meate by whole being. It was not religion, because I had not 
been exposed to that on ship board, and besides, I believe that 
religion never took hold of any one, all over, and at once, without 
any premeditation, like that. It could not be remorse, because 
the crime never was committed, which was capable of generating 
such a vast amount of remorse. It might be an aggravated at- 
tack of an hypertrophied conscience, such a conscience as the 
Standard Oil Trust might entertain to advantage. Whatever it 
was, I didn't know what to do with it, any more than the afore- 
said Trust would know what to do with such a conscience. 

It could not be sea-sickness, because I was always considered 
immune. I was once on the Gulf of Mexico, in an awful storm, 
when we barely escaped shipwreck, and I actually envied those 
who were sea-sick, because they were prepared to die. And again, 



I was once in the track of an hurricane, which swept Lake Huron, 
and I was the only woman who was not ill. I remember, on that 
occasion, a nurse maid, who held a wee babe in her arms, while 
she leaned over the deck rail, and meditated upon the vicissitudes 
of life, and vexations of the flesh, besides a few other things, 
which are liable to come up at such a time. I sprang to seize 
the child, and lo, before I could wink, the nursemaid was no 
more. I do not mean that she departed this life literally, but she 
had abandoned my immediate neighborhood, without any super- 
fluous ceremony, leaving a real live baby upon the hands of a 
young unsophisticated girl, who stood in wholesome awe of the 
entire genus. I immediately commissioned a steward to locate 
its doting parents, and to tell them that they could have their 
precious offspring, without money and without price, and no 
questions asked. The father (a Methodist minister), sent back 
word that they had no immediate use for the child, and that I 
could keep it until called for. The mother requested that I should 
bring him up on the bottle, and the fifth commandment. Neither 
parent had ever seen me, or heard anything about me. The baby 
seemed to possess an aesthetic taste, and liked bright colors, so 
I gave him radishes, and early water melon. 

No, this could not possibly be an attack of sea-sickness, for 
Joshua was studying a crazy-looking map, in which Scotland was 
dancing the Highland Fling all over Europe ; and Joshua would 
certainly be ill, if there were the slighest occasion. I thought of 
the poor Irish woman, who was so sick, — "Faith, an' she cud- 
dent kape anny thing on her stummick, at all, at all, bejabers, ex- 
cipt her hands." 

And then I recalled Mark Tapley's criticism of the sea. "It is 
as nonsensical a thing as any going. It hasn't no employment for 
its mind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar 
bears in the wild beast shows, as is constantly nodding their 
heads from side to side, it never can be quiet. What with lead- 
ing the life of a fly, ever since I've been aboard, for I've been per- 
pendicularly holding on to something or other in a upside down 
position — what with that, and putting very little into myself, and 
taking a good deal out of yourself, there aint too much of me to 
swear by." 

10 



I wondered if it would be any relief to echo Mark Twain's 
groan of "Oh, My!". If it should happen to be sea-sickness, 
here was an opportunity to test the virtue of Christian Science. I 
have a friend who is confident that she could dance with a broken 
leg, and triumph over the combination of cancer, tuberculosis, and 
all other ills to which flesh is heir. Surely, I ought to accomplish 
the overthrow (I use that word advisedly) of a little thing like 
sea-sickness. I forthwith assured myself that there was no sea, 
and hence as a logical sequence, there could be no such thing as 
the sickness which is ascribed to its baleful influence. 

I looked at Joshua and smiled comfortably and reassuringly. 
Alas ! That smile was unhappily reflected in the mirror opposite, 
and it was too much for a raw recruit in the ranks of Christian 
Science. That smile actually made me ill. It was the ghastliest 
sight I ever witnessed. 

"If Lucretia on Tarquin but once had looked so, 

She had needed no dagger next morning", might be para- 
phrased 

If Jonah had smiled like me on the whale, 

It would not have swallowed him ; 

'Twould have turned its tail. 

Which would have saved its stomach from turning. 
I gave up ignominiously, not a little, but all I had, — modesty, 
pride, resolution, provender, — everything which I had spent a 
lifetime to accumulate. I would willingly have yielded life it- 
self, because really, I had no further use for it. 

Joshua administered all the remedies which his forethought 
had prepared for himself. Each one was a degree worse than its 
predecessor, and I know that Oliver Wendell Holmes must have 
wrestled with seasick patients, when he said: "I firmly believe 
that if the whole materia medica could be sunk to the bottom of 
the sea, it would be all the better for mankind, and all the worse 
for the fishes." 

I waxed wroth at Joshua, whom I thus addressed: "If you 
had a grain of sympathy, you'd swallow your own medicine. 
You'd be sick yourself. If I should die, you'll probably marry 
again in less than a year, and I don't care." Whereat Joshua 
benevolently rejoined : "I'm glad of that, my dear. By the way, 

11 



have you noticed that pretty girl in the brown suit, with auburn 
hair, and beautiful brown eyes? She is usually writing letters 
in the library at this hour. I'll just go and inquire if she has any 
remedy for sea-sickness." 

Ah ! He had discovered the right antidote at last. I was 
whole from that very hour; and I did not suffer a relapse, even 
after I had learned that the brown-eyed girl was the creation of 
an overwrought imagination. 

We were becoming quite reconciled 

"On Ocean's foam to sail, 
Where'ere the surge may sweep", 

when lo, we sighted Bishop's Rock, and Scilly Isles. Shuffle- 
board was abandoned, and with glasses in hand, we stationed 
ourselves at the bow, and saluted the land which we had not seen 
since the sailing of the Mayflower. We watched it all afternoon, 
and finally retired, leaving it to its own destruction, and its de- 
struction by the sea. One of our deck companions, a man of ex- 
cessive avoirdupois, who promenaded continually, also turned in 
with a weary sigh of relief, because his pedestrian tour across the 
Atlantic was almost ended. 

We were aroused at four o'clock the next morning by the loud 
rap of a conscientious steward, who was doing his best to be 
worthy of his anticipated fee. 

"Lizard Light in twenty minutes, ev you please, sir." 

Joshua condemned Lizard Light to eternal darkness, and 
snoozed on placidly. At four-thirty came another loud rap, and 
conscientious Boots called out, "Shoes all blacked, ev you please, 
sir." Boots was cordially invited to go to Lizard Light. 

Ten minutes later came another summons, "Bath ready, ev 
you please, sir." The conscientious bath steward was peremptorily 
ordered to accompany Boots to Lizard Light, and Joshua dreamed 
on of the peace that knows no waking. At five o'clock came 
another rap, and the call, "Letters, ev you please, sir." Joshua's 
snores were mingled with groans and inaudible maledictions, but 
we got up nevertheless, and read our mail, after which we ate 
our breakfast, and at eight o'clock, we entered the Southampton 

12 



customs house, sans liquor and sans cigars. We were therefore 
set at liberty, and sauntered forth to do the town, but were soon 
resigned to be done by. We were plucked green, and done brown 
— done to a very cinder, by the trades people and restaurant 
manageresses. When our faith in the honesty of mankind — or 
rather womankind — was entirely reduced to ashes, we gathered 
up the crumbs of our credulity (being in a condition of mixed 
metaphors) and at midnight, cast them upon the waters of the 
British Channel, and set sail for Havre. 

We have heard much of neglected children, of whom there 
are many varieties. Occasionally these delinquents have parents, 
spiritual pastors and masters, sponsors in baptism, valets and 
maids, tutors and governesses, but notwithstanding, or because 
of this embarassment of riches, they are neglected and lost. We 
encountered such a specimen on our voyage. His name was 
Bobby. He was five years old, and he was taking his family to 
Europe. 

His retinue consisted of a weak mother, two grown up sisters, 
silly and frivolous, besides a much abused and long suffering 
maid. He was weak eyed and knocked kneed, puny and dyspep- 
tic, minus teeth and without complexion. He never smiled. In- 
deed, he was a chronic whiner. His perennial tears were prob- 
ably responsible for his weak eyes, and I attributed his querulous 
disposition to the crazy assortment of sweet stuff which he was 
perpetually munching, while his knock knees could be explained 
by the fact that his little bare, blue legs, shivering in their stylish 
socks, sought each other's society for comfort and sympathy. 
His total disregard for the rights and property of others, his 
manipulation of the truth, and his downright fiendishness, could 
only be accounted for on the ground of moral neglect. 

He was a terror to the children, whose faces he scratched, 
whose hair he pulled, and whose playthings he threw overboard ; 
while the adults brushed him away with as little compunction, as 
they would a plague infested mosquito. The nurse maid was 
kicked, and maltreated generally, and if she even ventured a 
feeble protest, she was warned that "unless she was kind and in- 
dulgent to Bobby, that she would be dropped at Southampton.'' 

13 



When I afterward saw Southampton — with drunken soldiers, and 
profligate seamen revelling in its streets — I thought of her, and 
hoped that Bobby's bufferings, and bullyings, would not be more 
than she could endure. It would be a crime to cast a young girl 
ashore in a foreign seaport. 

Some day Bobby's degenerate face will stare at us from the 
criminal columns of a newspaper, and society will puzzle itself 
over the psychological and sociological problem, of another scion 
of excellent family, with superior social environment, gone astray. 

That child is as much neglected, both physically and morally, 
as any child of the slums, and his mother is more responsible than 
the slum mother. We are bound to respect the rights of child- 
hood, but one of those rights is a little wholesome discipline ju- 
diciously administered. 



14 



II. 
PARIS 

Place de la Concorde, and the Louvre. 

Paris is feminine as to gender. She might be likened unto 
some favorite actress, equally gifted in tragedy, comedy, or vau- 
deville. Beautiful and attractive, gaily and sumptuously attired 
to enhance her personal charms, vivacious and witty, she con- 
descends to receive the adulation of many of the mighty ones of 
earth. She is not less apt to dazzle and charm the lowliest. All 
are drawn toward her, as to a star of the first magnitude. No 
artist can withstand her. She capriciously favors some with hon- 
ors and fame, while others flutter hopelessly in her blighting at- 
mosphere, and are consumed as moths in a candle ; to some she 
accords wealth, while she may harass others with dire poverty, 
she is imperious and deferential; she is coy and seductive; 
she ogles and cajoles with trickery, while she convinces with her 
logic, and bids you capitulate to her knowledge ; she is beautiful- 
ly reverent, and she blasphemes like a fishwife; she is vindictive 
and revengeful, and again she is generous and merciful ; she is 
both Goneril, and Cordelia, — cruel and kind by turns ; she teaches 
wisdom directly by precept, and inversely by the practice of friv- 
olity ; she attracts, and she repels ; she is charming, and she is 
no less disgusting. She is all things to all men. We likened her 
unto an actress, and to extend the comparison, one of her chief 
attractions, if not the corner stone of her success, is that she is a 
creature of a past history. 

She does not seek to hide it under a bushel. It is thrust upon 
you at every turn. It is eve^where flaunted before your eyes. 
The very air reeks with it. The buildings are saturated with it, 
and it is proclaimed aloud from the housetops. Even the paving 
stones, trodden by the feet of the hurrying throng, murmur grisly 
legends of the past, till they seem again to be slippery with human 
gore. 

Take for example the Place de la Concorde, with its beautiful 

15 



monuments and sparkling fountains, with its superb views of the 
Louvre, the Garden of the Tuilleries, the Arc de Triumph, with 
the classic Madeleine in the distance, and the Chamber of Depu- 
ties across the Seine. The river is here spanned by the Pont de 
la Concorde, in the construction of which, some of the stones of 
the old Bastille were utilized. 

How fair and beautiful a scene to gaze upon, a picture to rav- 
ish the senses — a Place de la Concorde — appropriately named, 
typical of the harmony which is born of "peace on earth, good 
will to men." But, alas ! It was not ever thus. Memory of by- 
gone horrors cannot be stifled, and the present smiling prospect 




Place de la Concorde 



is darkened by the shadow of the past. We cannot forget that 
the Place has oft been false to its name, — indeed, that it often has 
found it expedient to change its name — like a common criminal, 
or frequently divorced widow, and the re-christening has invari- 
ably been attended with a baptism of blood. 

The Place de la Concorde was reclaimed from its primitive 
state by Louis XV, and its balustrades and pavilions were con- 
structed during his reign. In 1763, he graciously permitted an 
equestrian statue of himself to be erected there — probably at his 

16 



own instigation. At any rate, the people showed a deplorable 
lack of appreciation of his noble condescension, and it became the 
object of their derision. The statue came to an untimely end 
August 10, the day after the capture of the Tuilleries, in 1792. It 
was melted, and converted into filthy lucre — 2 sous pieces — and 
thus became the servant of the public, to purchase bread, and 
garlic, and beer, or perhaps to determine by "heads or tails" the 
color of a coat, or the fate of an empire. 

The statue had been surrounded by the allegorical figures 
Wisdom, Justice, Strength, and Peace. Was ever irony more 
bitter! Where were the wisdom and justice of Louis XV? 
Where was the strength, when he recognized and tacitly acknowl- 
edged the fact that his kingdom was crumbling, and could not 
long survive himself? And where, O where, was the peace? Let 
the French Revolution make reply. 

Here, in the Place de la Concorde — perish the name! — here, 
on January 21st, 1793, Louis XVI., (grandson and successor of 
the monarch by whom the Place was begotten), was beheaded, 
and here, nine months after her husband's execution, the fair 
head of Marie Antoinette was severed, to pay the debt of her van- 
ity and extravagance. It was a cruel prank which fortune thus 
played upon her petted and pampered offspring. And still an- 
other grandchild of Louis XV, Madam Elizabeth, sister of Louis 
XVI, also fell a victim to the people's fury, and yielded her use- 
ful and virtuous life to the insatiable and blood-thirsty guillotine. 
Here also, Charlotte Corday, Danton, Robespierre, St. Just, and 
hundreds more — 2,800 in less than three years — sacrificed their 
heads to the barbarous invention of which Dr. Guillotine was 
the father, and by which his name has been perpetuated to ques- 
tionable fame. 

The populace, not less than their victims, had lost their heads. 
They were first maddened by their wrongs, and later by the con- 
tagion of their own lawless and unrestricted passions. The Place 
de la Concorde was then the Place de la Revolution, and the 
statue of Louis XV was supplanted by that of a female figure 
called the Goddess of Liberty. Another fine bit of irony, when 
in this reign of terror, no man was free, but all were abject slaves 

17 



of anarchy, treachery, and ignorance, which Shakespeare says "is 
the curse of God." 

In 1795, when the guillotine had become surfeited and clogged 
with human blood, when Girondists and Jacobins had succumbed 
to the poison of their own sting, when their leaders, Robespierre, 
Danton, Marat, and others, had expiated their criminal blunders 
with their lives, when people — except those who slept the sleep 
which knows no waking — were beginning to arouse from the 
nightmare of horror, the Place de la Revolution once more re- 
sumed its maiden name, Place de la Concorde. Again, again, and 
yet again, it was renamed. After the restoration of the Bourbons, 
it was successively known as Place Louis XV, and Place Louis 
XVI, but once more became Place de la Concorde in the time of 
Louis Philippe. But the significance of its name did not prevent 
it from becoming the scene of discord, barbarous outrage, and 
bloody strife, during the last days of the regime of the Commune 
in 1871. 

The student of history is paralyzed with horror, as he recalls 
the frightful atrocities committed during those awful days, when 
the troops from Versailles pressed forward, in spite of barricades, 
crowding upon the Communists intrenched within the Tuilleries, 
and with shot and shell forced them to flee, as they, not long be- 
fore, had caused the flight of Eugenie from the same place. De- 
vastation prevailed everywhere, starvation menaced, crime flour- 
ished rankly, and incendiarism was rampant. The grand palace 
of the Tuilleries, with its priceless treasures, vanished in the lurid 
flames. The Hotel de Ville, and the invaluable library of the 
Louvre, with its 93,000 volumes and manuscripts, all were de- 
stroyed in the holocaust. Fortunately, the museum and galleries 
of the Louvre were saved. 

In the midst of the Place de la Concorde stands an obelisk, 76 
feet high, covered with strange Egyptian hieroglyphics. It was 
erected here in 1836, upon the site occupied by the guillotine in 
1793, — a legacy of ancient to modern civilization. Together with 
its sister, Cleopatra's Needle, which now occupies a site upon the 
Thames Embankment in London, this obelisk formerly stood be- 
fore a beautiful temple gate, which Rameses II, of Egypt, erected 
in the 14th century B. C, near Thebes. 

18 



I stood beside this mute witness of the past, and ardently 
wished that it might be imbued with life, as was Pygmalion's 
Galatea, that it might relate the making of history which it had 
witnessed. What would its verdict be? Are human passions still 
the same? Is war less barbarous now than in days of old? Is 
life more dear? Is murder extinct? Is modern anarchy more 
civilized than ancient conspiracy? Are not human passions still 
the same? Vain questionings! "Let the dead bury its dead." 

We are near the Louvre. Let us enter. Joshua leads the way 
with Baedecker, and I follow, with the kodak under my cloak, — 
to avoid checking it, and hence to avoid retracing our steps a 
probable mile, or a possible league, to reclaim it. We want to 
see the Venus de Milo, and we know that the statue is down- 
stairs ; but even that valuable information is about as vague and 
indefinite as the location of a shell in the Pacific Ocean — with this 
difference — there are millions of shells; there is but a single 
Venus. 

Joshua consulted his chart, and for the sake of evincing a so- 
ciable disposition, and to reassure a guard who is eyeing a sus- 
picious protuberance under my cloak, I inquire: "Is your Baed- 
eker well read?" "Well, it is all red," is Monsieur's giddy reply. 
I did not wish any unpleasantness there, so I passed by the re- 
mark, as well as its author, — when lo — away down the corridor, 
my eyes beheld a vision of surpassing loveliness, — Venus the in- 
comparable. We passed, without heeding, the statues which 
border either side of the long hall through which one approaches 
the shrine of this perfect goddess in stone, and we drew nigh in 
silent veneration. The Venus holds her state in utter solitude. 
Her beauty challenges your admiration, while her dignity com- 
mands your respect. Her chaste loveliness and gentle grace be- 
token a lofty soul. Her creation is a revelation of the ideal of 
perfect womanhood. Venus and Psyche in one. Who was the 
sculptor, and who was the model who inspired such a lofty con- 
ception of love? There must have been some beautiful woman 
who embodied truth, purity, sympathy, tenderness, compassion, 
divine intuition, — indeed, all the elements of perfect love. And 
some man beheld the vision, and this is his testimony. They 
could not have been Christians, but were they pagans? Would 

19 



that some of our modern writers, who clamor hysterically for 
literary recognition, could be vouchsafed a glimpse of the real 
majesty and glory of womanhood. The recognition and com- 
prehension of an ideal is an incentive to make its attainment a 
reality. 

The artist who bequeathed this treasure to the world, has 
won immortality, though his name is lost. Such a creation in- 
cites more people to good, than a thousand such trashy heroines 
as Mary Maclane, Honor Endicott, or Anna Lombard — notwith- 
standing the sage remark of Mrs. Green : "If we hall on us never 
did nothin' but what we hought, Miss, where'd you go for a warn- 
ing to the young?" 

Shakespeare himself has given us the pagan Venus — the rev- 
eller in animal passion, while this heathen sculptor has fore- 
shadowed the Christian ideal of divine love. The most devout 
Christian artist, the most earnest devotee of the divinity of the 
virgin has not conceived a madonna more Godlike. A visit to 
this pagan goddess calms and rests one. 

There are some glass cases in the room, which contain muti- 
lated fragments of marble, which were found near the statue, on 
the Island of Melos. They may be interesting to the antiquarian, 
but some way, I resented their ghastly presence. Who did not 
honor the empty sleeve of Lord Nelson, and who would not have 
been shocked to see his room decorated with his amputated limb? 

After our adoration of the Venus, we determined that we 
were in no mood to appreciate any more statuary that day. It 
would be eminently unjust to the really fine things, in our present 
state of exaltation, and the idea of looking at the goitre necked 
and brutal faced Emperors of Rome, was simply unendurable. 

Ascending a stairway to the picture gallery, we were con- 
fronted, on the landing, by the wonderful statue of Nike of Sam- 
othrace. We had forgotten all about her, and were completely 
surprised out of our mood. She bade us rejoice over the victory 
which she commemorates, and we clapped our hands in the ex- 
cess of our joy and rapture. The calm serenity of Venus was 
forgotten, and we were conscious only of triumph and jubilation. 
Was ever such motion without life? You seem to hear the swish 
of the water as it is cut by the prow of the trireme, and you can 



20 



actually see the graceful draperies floating in the air, while your 
ears are gladdened by the trumpet's blast, which proclaims that 
victory is ours. 

Shall I relate what else we saw there on that day? There 
were several thousand things which I do not in the least remem- 
ber, but the building itself impressed us with its pungent aroma 
of past history. For instance, in the Salle de Cariatides, I have 
only a misty recollection of the pieces of statuary grouped there, 
but I seemed to see the marriage which occurred there August 
19th, 1572, when Henry of Navarre was united to the beautiful 
though infamous Margaret of Valois, daughter of the odious 
Catherine de Medici, who was then managing the rudder of 
state, and who succeeded in wrecking the government craft, as 
she in turn wrecked the lives of her four degenerate sons — Fran- 
cis II (the boy husband of Mary Queen of Scots), Charles IX, 
Henry III, and the Duke of Anjou — a miserable pawn, who nearly 
captured the queen, Elizabeth of England. 

Five days after this ill-starred marriage, this same Medici 
woman, influenced her son, Charles IX, to cause the arrest of 
his new brother-in-law, the bridegroom, and then began that aw- 
ful slaughter of the Huguenots, known as the Massacre of St. 
Bartholomew, the signal for which was rung from the bell tower 
of that church St. Germain l'Auxerrois, directly opposite the 
Place de Louvre. Here, too, in this same hall, in 1610, the body 
of that same bridegroom — the gallant Henry of Navarre — lay in 
state. Meanwhile he had become Henry IV of France, had di- 
vorced his disreputable queen, Marguerite of Valois, and had 
married Marie de Medici, twelve years before his assassination. 
The o'erweening vanity of this last queen has endowed the 
Louvre with one of its finest galleries, namely the Rubens. 

This hall contains probably a score of immense paintings, 
which represent in allegory the principal scenes in the life of 
Marie, and incidentally also of the king, who made her his royal 
consort. Mythological deities like Jupiter, Juno, Mars, etc., are 
allowed to mingle freely as her social equals, while she graciously 
condescends to permit Rubens to represent Minerva, Mercury, 
and Apollo, as her early instructors. Though she generously ac- 
cords them a reflected prestige, Marie herself is omnipresent, and 

21 



figures conspicuously in every painting, although in one, she is 
represented by her portrait alone, before which the king stands 
enraptured with her beauty, and determines to make her his 
queen. Even in the apotheosis of Henry IV, Marie in her habili- 
ments of woe, enthroned between Minerva and Wisdom, is the 
central figure, lending dignity and tone to the occasion, while 
Gallia and high born noblemen are found in their proper attitude 
at her feet. 

When one considers that Rubens executed these pictures at 
the instigation of Marie, for the decoration of her own palace at 
the Luxembourg, and that her union with Henry was not "one 
grand, sweet song" of marital bliss, the egotism of it all seems 
rather overgrown. But some of Rubens' most gorgeous coloring, 
and pleasing portrait work are found in these pictures, although 
his pupils in Antwerp probably assisted largely in the final exe- 
cution of them. After all, we should be grateful that her self-ap- 
preciation caused one of the greatest masters of that day to re- 
flect the life, scenes, and costumes of the period — supplemented 
and reinforced by the presence of a few heathen gods, to show 
that royal personages moved in good society. 

It was a rare delight to recognize the bona fide originals of 
our favorite engravings, such as the Assumption and the Im- 
maculate Conception of Murillo. No one ever painted such ador- 
able babies as he. They are all so dear, that it is impossible to 
select the most interesting, and you are forced to adopt the whole 
nursery. Among so many perfect gems, one comprehends the 
full meaning of the phrase "an embarrassment of riches". We 
saw Raphael's tender and beautiful Virgin with the infant Jesus 
and St. John, and also his two pictures of the Dragon, which 
seemed to tread a difficult path, being "held up" on various 
occasions by such celebrities as St. George and St. Michael. St. 
Michael seems to have led as busy a life as a modern club woman, 
for in another picture, Raphael represents him standing upon the 
prostrate form of Satan, whom he is about to impale with a spear, 
and Raphael is by no means the only artist for whom this saint 
has posed. St. Sebastian, too, seems to have been an overworked 
individual. He has stood patiently through several centuries of 
enduring agony — a target to be pierced by the "arrows of out- 

22 



rageous fortune." Joshua thinks that he would make an ad- 
mirable bicycle tire — having "untiringly withstood so many 
punctures." 

The Louvre is especially rich in the works of Titian, that 
"Prince of colorists and portraits." But the greatest Titian I 
have yet seen, was not in the Louvre, but in the studio of M. 
Kopp, 6 rue Volney. We had a desperate time finding the place, 
and several times gave ourselves up as irrevocably lost, and were 
heartily relieved to discover ourselves in a mirror, which also re- 
flected the studio which contained this priceless treasure of art. 
Priceless? It can be purchased for the trifling sum of $100,000.00, 
but no amount of money can adequately represent its value. It 
is absolutely authentic, and was painted in 1535. It was former- 
ly in the collection of the Duke of Modena of Italy, but when 
Victor Emanuel conquered the Duke in 1860, this picture, The 
Danae, was hidden in a Spanish monastery. Once before, twentv 
years ago, the picture was brought to Paris, hoping that it might 
find a refuge in the Louvre, but funds were inadequate for its 
purchase, and it was again returned to Spain, where it remained 
till 1901. 

It is simply impossible to describe the beauty and grace of 
the picture. The canvas is more than six feet long, and four in 
height. The subject represents a most beautiful woman, reclin- 
ing on a couch, and gazing dreamily upward, whence a shower of 
golden coins seems to descend upon her, through the darkened 
atmosphere, from an opening in the roof of her subterranean 
prison. The figure is nude, save for a single drapery. The form 
is absolutely perfect, and the flesh tints are marvellously delicate, 
glowing with health and life. The hair is that lovely shade of 
auburn, which only nature and Titian know how to make real. 

Danae is the daughter of Acrisius, and Jupiter is so enamored 
of her beauty, that he wooes her with this shower of gold. She 
has awakened from a dream of love, and at first she is mystified 
and wonders what this shining shower portends. You know the 
mythological story, or, if you have forgotten, Anthon's Classical 
Dictionary will refresh your memory. Titian has painted into 
this woman, the yielding of self to a love which she believes to 
be from heaven, golden, beautiful, and pure. There is none of 

23 



the cold, sordid calculation of the modern belle, selling herself 
to the highest bidder, because of a greed of gold. We havn't 
much use for Jupiter, and cannot wholly revere his memory, or 
endorse all his acts, but really, he was an excellent judge of fe- 
male beauty. I wish that I had the thousand dollars which I ex- 
pected to make in the egg industry in my childhood, with ninety 
and nine other thousands of dollars, and there would be an up-to- 
date shower of gold, and the lovely Danae would then be mine. 



24 



III. 

PARIS. 

Notre Dame, and The Palais de Justice. 

We visit churches when we feel good enough. We havn't en- 
tered very many — only five of the sixty-two, which are listed in 
Baedeker. I ought to let Joshua describe Notre Dame. First, 
he criticised its location, and then its exterior. He said that both 




Notre Dame 



people and pictures had conspired together to deceive him, from 
his earliest childhood. Interview him, and he will reply: "Yes, 
the flying buttresses are light and graceful, and fly well ; and the 
gargoyles are grotesque and hideous enough to please the most 
exacting, and grinned all right, but the building was not as im- 
posing as I had a right to expect. It doesn't live up to its reputa- 



25 



tion. It sets too low on the ground, and it can't compare at all 
with the Madeleine, or Pantheon in dignity, or even with Saint 
Chapelle for architectural beauty." He had previously abused 
Sainte Chapelle for its lilliputian size, and its crowded neighbor- 
hood. Joshua is not a caviler, but he is intensely American, and 
his loyalty to his country will not permit him to accept greedily 
everything which happens to wear a foreign label. 

On the whole, he was more interested in watching a passing 
funeral procession, than in studying the details of the stone carv- 
ing in the facade of Notre Dame. His heresy reached its cul- 
mination, when he experimentally dropped a bit of soap into the 
hat of a blind ( ?) beggar, standing in the porch. It was amusing 
to see the look of disgust, which involuntarily overspread the 
beggar's countenance, as he was surprised into a surreptitious 
glance into his hat. We wondered if he knew what it was, and 
recognized the significance of the gift. 

Within the Cathedral, Joshua took occasion to write up his 
voluminous diary. If he is ever tried on the charge of garrulity, 
that document will never serve as evidence for the prosecution. 
Next he figured up his expense account, after which he wrote a 
poste card, exposing the fraudulent claims of the Cathedral which 
it pictured, and then he calmly proceeded to put a new roll of 
films in his camera. Finally, just as I had concluded my first tour 
of inspection, Joshua leisurely opened his Baedeker, and pro- 
ceeded to read what the "pope" (our nickname for the infallible 
director of our steps) "had to say in apology for this ancient pile". 
Joshua was somewhat rested by that time, and listened leniently 
to my enthusiastic description of the wood carvings. The organ 
was pealing a solemn mass, calculated to "soothe the savage 
breast", and under its benign influence, my liege lord began to 
take an interest in his surroundings, and without any manifest 
physical effort, discovered two magnificent rose windows. He 
also graciously conceded that for a church which was begun in 
the 12th century, and had always resided in Paris, that it held its 
age remarkably well. He did even more. He generously con- 
ceded that before the elevation of the street to its present level, 
that the Cathedral might have been very grand and imposing. 
Prior to 1748, the church was approached by thirteen steps, but 

26 



now — possibly to obliterate the unlucky number, the street is 
paved to a level with the entrance. 

The church is located on the He de la Cite, and is said to oc- 
cupy the site of an ancient temple of Jupiter, which the first 
Christian Cathedral displaced about 365 A. D. This island in the 
Seine is one of the oldest parts of Paris, and was the nucleus 
about which the city was built. At the time of Caesar, it was a 
little Gallic village, to which he refers in his Commentaries, as 
Lutetia Parisiorum. You will find it in de Bello Gallico, Libre 
VI — 3, along with much more that is valuable and wearisome. I 
have always retained the fixed impression, that Caesar was for- 
ever crossing rivers, and running up against a corner in the corn 
market. I little thought 1900 years ago, that I should meet with 
the same experience today in Gaul. 

After the conquering march of Caesar, Lutetia Parisiorum was 
occupied by the Romans, and in 292 — 306, the Emperor Con- 
stantius had his residence here. Thus the royal palace and the 
Cathedral of Notre Dame were the foci, which reflected Parisian 
life for many centuries. 

The palace of long ago has been supplanted by the Palais de 
Justice, a place so saturated with history, that one is interested 
to the verge of madness. Several times it has been burned, once 
in 1618, and again in the year of our Independence, 1776, and a 
considerable portion of the building was wantonly destroyed dur- 
ing the Commune, in 1871. Several of the towers, however, in- 
cluding the Tour l'Horloge, containing a clock dating from 1370, 
likewise the kitchens of Louis IX, Salle des Gardes, and above 
all, the interesting Sainte Chapelle, have survived the ravages of 
time, and defied the hand of the destroyer. 

Sainte Chapelle was the royal chapel erected by St. Louis 
(Louis IX) to receive the sacred relics — a piece of the true cross, 
and the crown of thorns — which Jean de Brienne, King of Jerusa- 
lem, and his son-in-law Baldwin, Emperor of Constantinople, 
knocked down to him for the insignificant sum of 3,000,000 francs. 
No one expostulated, apparently, or considered the relics high 
priced, and there is no evidence that any contemporary editors 
denounced the expenditure, or that the people regarded it in the 
pernicious light of a ship subsidy bill. But it is anachronistic to 

27 



expect a general expression of free thought prior to the Guten- 
berg movable types. The ways and means committees were rarely 
questioned in the period antenatal to journalism. Neverthe- 
less, I am glad that the chapel was built, for it is a marvel of 
gothic beauty. I should like to remove it, however, from its 
present tucked up quarters, and set it down in some roomy place 
where I could look at it. It is seldom used now as a place of 
worship — only once a year, in the autumn, when court is convened 
and when the Mass of the Holy Ghost is celebrated. It no longer 
contains the precious relics, as they have been removed to the 
treasury of Notre Dame. 

The church has a double chapel — one below, for the groveling 
servants, and another above for the soaring plumage of their lords 
and masters. One is uncertain whether or not their relative po- 
sitions and social status determined their character. One might 
say that they corresponded to milk and cream, while another 
might employ the descriptive figure of soup and scum. It prob- 
ably depends entirely upon the point of view. 

A small window in the side wall, communicating directly 
with the royal palace, permitted the king to watch and hear mass, 
in saintly and comfortable retirement, far from the madding 
crowd, — a very convenient arrangement, if he had mislaid his wig, 
or if his valet had borrowed his last collar. A door also opened 
directly from the palace to the chapel, and was probably used 
when the king was "clothed and in his right mind." 

The conciergerie is one of the most interesting parts of the 
whole palais. When I first entered, it seemed so horribly fa- 
miliar, that I experienced the uncanny sensation that I must have 
been confined there in some previous incarnation, — perhaps dur- 
ing the French Revolution. It was a great relief when Joshua 
casually remarked that Henry Irving had succeeded in making 
his stage setting of the prison scenes in Robespierre very realis- 
tic. The atmosphere was oppressive with grewsome recollections, 
and the walls pressed heavily upon the heart, and narrowed the 
horizon of the mind to encompass a single thought — lost liberty, 
and the futility of earthly ambition. 

The cell of Marie Antoinette especially recalled the past. The 
original aperture, which had jealously admitted a little light, to 

28 



render more manifest the gloom of her "cribbed and cabined" 
dungeon, was replaced by a stained glass window, by Napoleon I. 
A small altar with lighted tapers, had also been placed in the 
room,— I think by the same Emperor. Did a prophecy of his 
own future prison prompt him to sympathize with the misfortunes 
of Marie Antoinette, whose downfall had furnished the founda- 
tion of his own greatness? 

During the seventy-six days of Marie's confinement in this 
room, the queen was watched continually by spies. Not a single 
moment of privacy ! Think of the cruelty of such prying torture, 
to any woman of sensitive nature, delicacy, or refinement ! The 
opening, through which she was watched, is now mercifully 
closed, when it no longer matters to any living soul. The paved 
floor is the same which was trodden by the tiny foot, which she 
was wont to tap imperiously when she was maligned. 

In the adjoining hall occurred the banquet of the Girondin 
prisoners, on the night preceding their execution. Was ever a 
more literal fulfilment of the injunction, "Eat, drink, and be merry, 
for tomorrow ye die !" From the chapel in which the Girondists 
were confined, there is a side door, through which three hundred 
people were taken, at one time, and stabbed to death in the court, 
because the guillotine was overworked, and human vampires 
were impatient for the blood of their victims. They dared not 
risk the escape of their prey, lest it turn and rend them. 

We saw the door through which Marie was taken to the 
tumbril, and thence to the Place de la Concorde, to her death. 
Who is not haunted by the artist's picture of the proud, haughty 
young queen, bound rigidly in the cart, with uplifted head and 
disdainful countenance, facing the jeering rabble who run be- 
hind the tumbril? There is now a door in the wall, against which 
her bed was then placed, and this door opens into the cell of 
Robespierre, — a cell so microscopic, that we marvel that it could 
have contained a man of his intellectual stature — shrunken and 
shrivelled in spirit though he was. Retribution was swift in those 
days. "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" — had 
Robespierre ever prayed thus? If so, "Vengeance is mine, saith 
the Lord". Power was a fragile and dangerous plaything, in those 
perilous times. All power, save the Omnipotent, is finite. 



29 



We saw the windows through which Charlotte Corday and 
Madame Elizabeth had peered down into the court, while await- 
ing the hour when they too should be summoned to death. The 
conciergerie is a veritable charnel house of grewsome memories, 
dead hopes, vague questionings, morbid thoughts, and blasted 
ambitions. Stripped of all these, nought remains but the grisly 
spectre of human frailty and sin. Why had I come here? 

When we visited Notre Dame, I had refused to cross the street 
to peer in at the morgue window. I had refused to gaze upon the 
features of the wretch who was slain in a drunken brawl, or upon 
the erring girl who had cast her shame and misery into the Seine, 
or upon the tender babe who had been cruelly abandoned to its 
fate. But here I walk through the "street of straw", where not 
three, but three hundred dejected people, once lay starving to 
death upon the straw spread in this corridor of the Palais de 
Justice. Is death less hideous, is human passion less dangerous, 
or is crime less repulsive, because it has been embalmed for one 
or two centuries? Read Carlyle's French Revolution, Victor 
Hugo's 93, Dumas' Maison du Rouge, or the Hunchback, quietly 
in your library, and you may be tempest tossed; but visit the 
Conciergerie, and the air becomes stifling with recollections ; the 
atmosphere, dense and heavy, seems to press all joy out of life, 
and the heart is crushed between the upper and nether millstones 
of sin and wretchedness. 

The spacious Salle des Pas-Perdus (Hall of Lost Footsteps), 
is 240 feet long, and 90 feet wide, and it was formerly used by 
the clergy, for the production of moral plays. It is now the 
promenade of the lawyers in long gowns,, who frequent the 
numerous courtrooms in the Palais de Justice. Among the stat- 
ues which the hall contains, is one of Malesherbes, who defend* 
ed Louis XVI, and thereby lost his head, as well as his fee. There 
is also a statue of Berryer, a renowned advocate of the last cen- 
tury. 

Hall of Lost Footsteps ! What significance is attached to the 
name ! The whole place is haunted with spectres of the past, and 
its corridors still echo with their retreating steps, while the hur- 
rying throng of the present crowds closely upon the receding 
forms, and the new imprints fade away, and are lost with the old. 

30 



A fine looking body of men are these advocates and doctors of 
the law— handsome, dignified, and alert — pacing back and forth, 
cherishing ambition, aiming to make the success of their clients 
their own, seeking to anticipate or blockade the plans of their 
opponents, framing evidence with which to rebut the plaintiff's 
surrejoinder, or conjuring unanswerable arguments to clinch the 
prosecution. How we long to know whither their steps portend ! 
How many will leave impressions which 

"A forlorn and shipwrecked brother 
Seeing, may take heart again." 

I had become so absorbed in my own speculations, that I 
quite forgot that I was not gazing upon Egyptian mummies, 
when I was rudely aroused from my reveries by the sudden ap- 
parition of a waxed mustache against a background of insinuating 
French cheek. A thin, white hand, with long, slender fingers, 
elevated a shining silk tile. The other hand held the idle mate 
of the irreproachable glove in which it was encased. An at- 
tenuated voice, tuned to concert pitch, laboriously uttered the 
following speech : "Pardon, madam, I flattered ees wiz ze look of 
madam." Where was Joshua? Fifty feet away, interviewing a 
guard as usual. I hurriedly fled from the apparition, so that my 
own vanishing footsteps added a fresh significance to the name 
of the hall. When I breathlessly related my experience, Joshua 
loaned me a small capital of sympathy, at a high rate of interest. 
"Even though you do find the monkeys amusing," he said, "you 
can't gaze at them, as you would at the caged varieties in the 
Zoo. Which particular ape was it?" But the "ape's" footsteps 
too were lost, and I "shall not look upon his like again." He wore 
glasses, and I am reluctantly forced to admit that he must really 
have needed them. It was some consolation to reflect that at a 
waxworks exhibition, Joshua once searched for a catalogue num- 
ber on a living man, mistaking him for a waxen image. 

The galleries of Louis IX contain frescoes which represent 
him administering justice from his youth up. He is sometimes 
called the father of French jurisprudence. Previous to his reign, 
personal injury and private wrongs had been chiefly redressed by 
individual means. St. Louis, however, instituted public courts 

31 



of justice, and he also curtailed the supremacy of the feudal 
courts. His two crusades won for him the prefix of saint, but his 
wisdom as a legislator has crowned him with a more enduring 
fame. His genuine piety, however, was the true index of his 
character, and combined with wisdom, justice, and mercy, was the 
firm foundation of his greatness. 

Many of the court rooms of the Palais de Justice contain 
pictures of the crucifixion. Bonnat, Baudry, and other artists are 
represented by some fine paintings. Henner's Christ is in the 
civil chamber of the Court of Cassation, I think. The room, in 
which the first trial of Dreyfus occurred, is magnificent in the ex- 
treme. The gilded ceiling is gorgeous beyond description, and the 
cost of the decoration — exclusive of the paintings — is said to be 
1,500,000 francs, or the equivalent of $300,000. It seems expensive, 
but it shows up better than the true (?) cross, and crown of 
thorns, purchased by the pious Louis, and it only cost half as 
much. An interval of six hundred years had elapsed between the 
expenditures. Who can predict the expensive fads of six hundred 
years hence? Let us hope that our present enormous expendi- 
tures for the paraphernalia of war, may then seem infinitely worse 
than the pious purchase of the saintly Louis. 



32 



IV. 

PARIS. 

Passy, and Pere Lachaise Cemeteries, and Place de la Bastille 

After long continued visiting of buildings, which have been 
steeped for ages in history, until all the nicotine of painful as- 
sociation has been conscientiously extracted, and after quaffing 
deep draughts of this beverage, one's nervous system is screwed 
to the utmost tension. After the first exhilaration of this strong 
concoction has passed away, a reaction of depression sets in; 
there is a relaxation, which results in a gentle melancholy, and 
one awakes to the consciousness of "that dark brown taste." The 
intoxication is complete while it lasts, but it leaves a visible sed- 
iment of gloom, which only fresh air and sunshine can dispel. 
Nature demands a sedative or antidote. 

Ours was the common experience, and as "poison drives out 
poison", we wisely decided upon an allopathic dose of a counter 
irritant. Instead of sobering up gradually, or tapering off with 
diminishing portions, we resolved to eradicate the distemper, by 
the single application of a novel remedy. The proposed treat- 
ment was heroic, but it toned up the system and restored us to 
our normal condition of cheerfulness. Our Antiseptic Golden 
Medical Discovery was Cemeteries, and we took our medicine 
for one whole day. We first swallowed a small pellet, (Passy) 
and then we were constrained to partake of the large capsule, 
Pere Lachaise. 

Passy is a small cemetery in the vicinity of the Trocadero, and 
impresses one with the feeling that he is in an aristocratic neigh- 
borhood. It has an air of well bred exclusiveness, which con- 
tributes greatly to one's self esteem, and is conducive to a feeling 
of complacency, and congratulation that one is not as his silent 
neighbors are. The birds sang blithely, and there was a profusion 
of really and truly flowers. So often, in European cemeteries, the 
floral decorations are bead, paper, or wax imitations. The arti- 

33 



facial designs possess excellent enduring if not recuperative pow- 
ers, but they tell no story of life and the resurrection; whereas 
a single tiny forget-me-not, fading into decay, foretells the process 
of evolution, and breathes the hope of immortality. 

Here in this cemetery is the mausoleum of Marie Bashkirt- 
seff, executed by Bastien-Lepage, who is said to have had more 
than a passing interest in the gifted girl. Within the tomb, 
through a metal grill work, one can see a marble bust of the 
young Russian artist, a manuscript copy of her diary, her palette, 
and a painting which seems to be uncompleted. There were also 
several vases filled with beautiful flowers. 

We were told that her mother lived in this tomb for a con- 
siderable time, and that in recent years, she had frequently re- 
turned there, and spent a month or two at a time ; but we were 
unable to verify the statement, and it seems quite improbable. 
This showy, rather bizarre tomb, occupying a conspicuous site 
on the heights of Passy, with the morbid furnishings of its in- 
terior exposed to mortal gaze, seemed quite typical of the bril- 
liantly endowed young creature, who had climbed some of the 
steeps of life, and obtained a glimpse of the promised land of 
fame, and who had ruthlessly laid bare the machinery of her in- 
trospective life, as a surgeon in clinic demonstrates the compli- 
cated anatomy of muscle, tissue, and nerve. 

Leaving Passy, we are confronted with the distracting views 
of the Trocadero, and the Eiffel Tower, in such close proximity, 
that we are sorely tempted to relinquish our "pursuit of happi- 
ness", thinking that the capsule might not be necessary after all, 
to restore our customary cheerfulness. While we hesitated, we 
were greeted by a fellow countryman and his bride. His former 
wife had died six months before, thus defeating her most cher- 
ished "hope that Simon might go first, because he would be 
crushed beyond recovery, if she should die first." I think she 
probably meant mashed, instead of crushed. At least that was 
the result. 

The bride was radiant in a gown of bead passementerie 
over pink silk, while the disconsolate ex-widower was a sight to 
behold, arrayed in his wedding garments, fearfully and wonder- 
fully made. He had always boasted of his independence of style 

34 



in dress, and the result was frequently picturesque ; but now he 
had yielded some deference to the decrees of fashion, and the 
result of the halfway compromise was extremely ludicrous. 

The bride simpered, and "reckoned that the weather in Paris 
was better than to home", while he bluffed and blustered in a 
loud tone of voice. His system of orthography and pronunciation 
is most unique, and the supremacy of the one over the other is 
always determined by the one which gets there first. For ex- 
ample, he said there wasn't a decent "apartment store in Paris," 
that "Siegel and Cooper's beat 'em all holler." Joshua inquired if 
they had seen the Bon Marche, and he replied in the negative, 
and jotted down the name in his note book, which he then re- 
ferred to Joshua for an O. K. He had written the address "Bo 
Marshay". When the spelling was revised, he exclaimed: "Oh, 
we've been to the Bon March, an' Pinkie here, said: 'Well, we 
haint heard Mr. Bon's march, but you can just bet that Sousy's 
can beat it all holler,' " The groom asked us why "every boardin* 
house in Paris had a pension. They charged enough for their feed, 
without gettin' any extry bounty." They were going to Eiffel 
Tower, and wished us to accompany them. That determined our 
choice. We knew then that our salvation depended upon another 
cemetery. 

After their departure, we indulged in reminiscences of the first 
wife, who had kept the present groom conscientiously supplied 
with chest protectors, knitted wristlets, crochetted ear muffs, and 
blue neckties, because blue formed a pleasing contrast to his red 
whiskers. He now wore a scarf of flaming red. "Pinkie" proba- 
bly understood the value of a match. "Pinkie's" predecessor was a 
woman of portly dimensions, and good natured aspect. Her 
manner was affable, and her countenance wore an open expression 
especially when it expanded in one of her comprehensive and un- 
disguised yawns. She did not aspire to social triumphs, nor to 
political honors which involved the right of franchise, but she 
was recognized as the strongest pillar of the missionary society 
in her church. She was charitable, but impracticable. She would 
send fur boas to the Fiji Islanders, and buy gauze fans for the 
Eskimos. She would visit a poor family, and never notice that 
the children were barefooted, or if she did, she would probably 



35 



think that they were experimenting with the Kniepp cure, and 
she would give them everything except shoes. 

She traveled considerably about the world, but she never quite 
caught up with it. When she went to the Pacific coast, she saw 
two things en route: prairie dogs, and snow sheds. When she 
visited Mt. Vernon, she was greatly impressed with the "sacri- 
fegiouses" (sarcophagi) of George and Martha Washington. At 
the Columbian Exposition, she singled out the movable sidewalk, 
and the prune horse in the California State Building, as the most 
wonderful objects of the exhibition. In the Vatican and the Pitti 
Palace, she "did not notice the pictures particularly", but she 
"allowed they must be good — at least some of them were, because 
they had solid gilt frames as wide as that" — measuring one of 
her generous arms to the elbow. She once saw King Humbert, 
and she was astonished that he wore a hat, instead of a crown. 
Dear old soul ! She now wears a heavenly crown, and if it is as 
large as her generous heart, her head has undoubtedly adapted it- 
self to the size, and she probably enjoys the acquaintance of 
Raphael with as much genuine appreciation, as though he had 
been an artisan of gilt frames. 

At Place de la Bastille, we succumbed to the fever which was 
still in our veins, and tarried a while to dwell once more upon 
the past. We traced the mark which indicates a portion of the 
outline of the old fortress, and Joshua tried to obtain a picture 
of the bronze Column de Juillet, which was erected here in mem- 
ory of the heroes who fell in the Revolution of 1830. The monu- 
ment is very handsome, and did its best to "look pleasant", but it 
is 154 feet high, and the last few feet at the top, unfortunately 
failed to materialize in the picture. 

Heaven knows there are enough dreadful historical associa- 
tions connected with the Bastille, to keep one's memory busy, but 
the one event which stood out in the boldest relief in my recol- 
lection, and which seemed the most real, was the fictitious inci- 
dent of the imprisonment of Dr. Manette, as told by Dickens in 
The Tale of Two Cities. The mysterious Man with the Iron 
Mask, even though I entertained the improbable tradition that he 
was the twin brother of Louis XIV, was not more real, nor his 
fate more tragical, than was the cultured physician, whose per- 

36 



sonal identity during the eighteen years of his imprisonment, 
had become merged into that of the demented shoemaker, known 
as 105 North Tower. Even as I looked I saw a woman, standing 
in an open doorway near me, who was the very embodiment of 
Madam Defarge — and she was knitting! I involuntarily rubbed 
my eyes. Could it be possible that I had them again? The spell 
was certainly upon us, and we turned and fled from the spot which 
recalled so many harrowing memories. 

Scrambling for a place on top of a car, is a good restorative 
in itself, and it is almost the only vantage ground, from which 
one may obtain a glimpse over stone walls, into the sacred and 
jealously guarded precincts of the gardens and courts of private 
residences. 

On the Rue de la Roquette, we passed the prison de la Ro- 
quette, where convicts who were condemned to deportation, or 
execution, spent the interval of restless days and sleepless nights, 
before their sentences were carried into effect ; and several oblong 
paving stones indicate the place of execution, One cannot es- 
cape from the morbid suggestiveness of his environment. The 
very air reeks with it. It is the locality whence such literature 
as Poe's weird Tales might well emanate. On such a joyous day 
as this, "to home", I should feel like quoting: 

"Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, and see it glisten." 

But Lowell's couplet here seems never to find an appropriate 
season for utterance, — for here, as nowhere else, death prevails 
in the very midst of life. 

Pere Lachaise cemetery occupies the site of the garden of the 
Jesuit Pere Lachaise. He was the father confessor of the corrupt 
Louis XIV, and he was an easy, good natured man, who wished 
to live, and let live, without undue effort or exertion. He firmly 
believed in the divine rights of the king, and was conveniently 
blind to the sins of His Royal Highness, and gave him as speedy 
and comfortable shrift as was compatible with the dignity of his 
own sacred office. Occasionally, at Eastertide, the conscience of 
the good father was apt to suffer an unusually severe attack of 
indigestion; and then the wily priest would ingeniously avoid 

37 



granting absolution to the monarch who neglected his queen and 
openly vaunted Madam de Montespan in her place, by feigning 
illness. He would retire to his couch, suffer himself to be bled, 
and be desperately sick for a day or two. At such times, Louis 
inquired anxiously concerning the physical well being of his 
spiritual mentor, favoring him with delicate attentions, and even 
commissioning his own leech to prescribe for him. 

Pere Lachaise always deputized some deserving and ambitious 
young priest, who was not insensible to the advantages of an 
earthly as well as an heavenly future, to shrive the erring king. 
The arrangement was mutually satisfactory. Lachaise was 
grateful for the king's solicitude for his health, and Louis was 
not averse that his confessor's conscience should be burdened, as 
long as his own was undisturbed. And the services, — or non- 
services — of the priest were duly requited by the king. 

One day at Versailles, Louis saw the priest pluck a primrose, 
and he asked him if he would not like a garden of his own. Not 
long after, Lachaise was presented with a considerable piece of 
ground, to form a park of his own. The ground thus received is 
now a portion of this cemetery, and the present chapel now oc- 
cupies the site of the good priest's country home. To be sure, 
it was five leagues from the royal palace at Versailles, but that 
was not an insuperable objection either to king or priest, for the 
one pursued his way untrammeled by priestly disapproval (save 
that of the uncompromising Bossuet), and the other, unhampered 
by a too discerning conscience, found it easier to absolve sins 
which he did not witness. 

This country seat, with some additional ground, one hundred 
and ten acres in all, was consecrated to its present use in 1804, 
and is now a densely populated city of the dead, the sepulchre 
of one crowding closely that of its neighbor, Like cities of the 
living, there are aristocratic, as well as less desirable localities. 
There are permanent residents who own their homes, and there 
are temporary dwellers in these narrow abodes, tenants whose de- 
parture is governed by the expiration of the lease. 

A Concession Temporaire for a term of five years can be ob- 
tained for about fifty francs, or ten dollars. Of course the ac- 
commodations are even more cramped than that of a modern flat, 

38 



but no tenant has been known to utter complaint. A Concession 
a Perpetuite costs one thousand francs, while fairly comfortable 
and undisturbed rest for a period of thirty years, is guaranteed 
for three hundred francs, and that is about as long as the aver- 
age person manages to keep up appearances before the world. 

After all, what does it matter? The soul is not here, or rather, 
it is not interred in the tomb. It lives on through the ages, in 
the work which it has accomplished, or inspired. The ground of 
Pere Lachaise is sacred, because the ashes of so many of the 
world's noblest workers are interred therein. Workers of every 
sort lie buried here — those who have toiled for the masses, and 
have contributed some legacy of utility or art to the future — 
engineers, poets, statesmen, actors, painters, sculptors, musicians, 
inventors, philanthropists, physicians. 

Almost every name represents some man, who, created in the 
image of God, lived to enrich humanity with his genius, and who 
still lives immortal in the hearts of those who have been thus en- 
riched. The glory of Pere Lachaise is not in its monuments, save 
as they are the work of some noted sculptor; its glory resides in 
the names of the illustrious people that are inscribed upon its 
tombs, and we visit the graves of these men to render a tribute 
of gratitude to their memory. A lover of music would bare his 
head before a plain wooden slab, if it covered the dust of Chopin. 
Some of the world's greatest musicians lie buried in this hallowed 
place, and methought that nature's songsters knew it, and ren- 
dered their sweetest notes of harmony and praise, while the wind, 
softly playing in the trees, breathed a gentle requiem. 

Chopin we have mentioned. We dropped a silent tear, and an 
immortelle at the foot of the sorrowing muse that guards his 
tomb. We grieve for his unfulfilled hopes, but we love him for 
the inspired music which he has bequeathed unto the world. 
"Its very dances are sadness personified." 

Bellini, too, who also died in the glory of young manhood, 
and who wrote at such high pressure, averaging an opera a year, 
once rested here. La Somnambula, Norma, and I Puritani — out 
of vogue now, perhaps — but still tremulous with "mournful ca- 
dence and sweet cantalena". Bellini's name is inscribed on a 
monument here, but his remains lie in his native Catania. 



39 



Boildieu also, ballad writer, and one of the best representa- 
tives of the National School of Comic Opera in France. I would 
rather have heard his Caliph of Bagdad, than the flimsy modern 
opera which we were so unfortunate to hear at the Opera House. 
Nothing redeemed it, except the truly magnificent building, the 
splendid orchestra, and the marvelous intricacies of the specta- 
cular ballet. And — er — really, we were not quite educated up to 
that. It is painful to witness the public acknowledgment of a 
lot of women, that they are utterly without credit in any drygoods 
store, and that they have no friends from whom they can borrow 
clothes. Like Mark Twain, when he saw the can-can danced, we 
"put our hands before our faces, for very shame, and looked 
through our fingers." We had invited a maiden lady to accom- 
pany us ; she was a model of primness, an educator of young 
girls, and she entertained pronounced, and even obsolete ideas on 
the subject of propriety. I shall never be able to live down the 
ignominy of the abbreviated skirts which we saw that night. I 
wonder how Bo'ieldieu ever had the temerity to marry a ballet 
dancer. Small wonder that it resulted unhappily. 

Boieldieu's great teacher, Cherubini, also rests in Pere La- 
chaise, and I wonder if in paradise he still has the same contempt 
for Napoleon, as a critic of heavenly music, that he had for his 
standard on earth. "Citizen General," he once said to the future 
Emperor, "I perceive that you love only the music which does not 
prevent you from thinking of your politics." Quite the reverse 
was true of Cherubini himself. Had he loved music less, and been 
more politic, he need not have waited till the restoration of the 
Bourbons, for the tardy recognition which made him Composer 
and Conductor in the Royal Chapel, and Director of the Con- 
servatoire. His candor may have afforded him great satisfaction, 
but at the expense of his own interests, for he won no national 
musical preferment, as long as the great Bonaparte's star contin- 
ued in the ascendancy. Besides teaching and writing, he ob- 
tained what comfort he could in developing his bump of order, 
and decorating his walls with the diamonds and hearts of ordi- 
nary playing cards, arranged in fantastic designs. All his pos- 
sessions were duly labeled and pigeon-holed, and his handker- 
chiefs were numbered, and used in routine. 

40 



Joshua said it was unworthy to recall such gossipy trifles of 
the versatile composer of grand masses, solemn requiems, and 
artistic chamber music, Anacreon, and Ali Baba. But how often 
at the funeral of a friend, we are apt to hear just such trivial gos- 
sip about the departed or his family, — always related by our car- 
riage companions. We merely listen courteously, or incur ever- 
lasting enmity, by registering an indignant protest. 

Another of Cherubini's pupils, Auber, who won a renown 
worthy of his great master, is interred here. His Fra Diavolo is 
the first opera I ever heard, and I am yet thrilled with the memory 
of that wonderful night. I was thoroughly convinced that I had 
heard the greatest opera ever written. It was perfect from over- 
ture to finale, and I felt a kind of pitying contempt for anyone 
who had not heard it. 

Another of my childhood friends lies resting here — Lefebure- 
Wely. How I wrestled with his Titania, and Monastery Bells ! 

There is also a monument to the great composer, Rossini, 
whose Tancredi, William Tell, Barber of Seville, and other op- 
eras, and majestic Stabat Mater, have elated so many hearers ; 
but Rossini's dust was returned to its native Italian soil. 

Many of the most illustrious artists of France have left un- 
finished pictures upon their easels, and have been borne hither 
by mourning friends whose tear dimmed eyes could scarce behold 
the landscapes with which nature had tempted art, scenes which 
had inspired and urged the artist to his noblest endeavor. David, 
Corot, Couture, Baudry, Daubigny, Delacroix, and many others, 
who once revelled in the harmony of color, have become myste- 
riously transfigured in the chromatic spectrum of the universe, 
while their now idle hands crumble to dust, and mingle with the 
elements which here surround them. Dantan too is here, and 
many beautiful monuments of his design, which, though erected 
to the memory of others, pay eloquent tribute to his own memory. 
Michelet the historian, Laplace the mathematician, and Casimir, 
minister of Louis Philippe, are here at rest, in the bosom of the 
old orchard of Pere Lachaise. 

Nearly all of the great men who are interred here, accomplished 
their work during the century just closed. Of all the tombs we 
noted, we saw only two which marked the burial place of con- 

41 



temporaries of the priest Lachaise. They were those of Lafon- 
taine, the poet, and Moliere the dramatist. 

Of course we visited the tombs of Abelard and Heloise. We 
prudently selected a lovesick swain and his sweetheart, for our 
guides, knowing that if we followed their steps, we would be led 
directly to the shrine. In Europe, there is no concealment in the 
process of love making. From the initial sheep's eye glances, un- 
til the final culmination with the accessories of white gloves and 
veil, the world is generously taken into the confidence of the 
lovers. They will encircle each other with their arms, cheerfully 
occupy a single seat when there are several available ones vacant, 
kiss each other with garlicky lips, and assume the most awkward 
and uncomfortable postures, and yet wear a most seraphic ex- 
pression of satisfied bliss. And so we judiciously followed our 
lovers to their Mecca, and watched them throw flowers through 
the railing which surrounds the tomb, and saw the maiden weep 
on her swain's shoulder, and wipe her nose on his sleeve. It was 
quite moving — but we didn't move. 

The tomb consists of a marble sarcophagus, with two re- 
cumbent statues resting beneath a gothic canopy of marble, en- 
closed within a grating of iron, — presumably to protect the noses 
and fingers from the profane chisels of American tourists. Nation- 
al customs differ, and individual characteristics vary. On the 
whole, I believe it is more respectable to wipe your nose on an- 
other's coat (providing he seems to enjoy the process), than it is 
to swipe or deface the nose of a marble effigy. It is ever more 
blessed to give than to receive. 

These marble statues looked very cold, very lonely, and very 
tired; and no wonder! Abelard and Heloise have been cold in 
death since the 12th century. They endured the pangs of social 
ostracism, and not only was their life journey an hard one, but 
even their weary bones have frequently been urged to "move on", 
like tiny Joe in Bleak House. 

I admire Abelard for his scholarly attainments, and for his 
genius as a philosopher; but as a selfish, hypocritical priest I ab- 
hor him, and as a lover I utterly despise him. Heloise, I pity. 
Intellectually, she was gifted above the women of her day — or 



42 



indeed any day — and she might have been revered as a Christian 
Hypatia. 

Love is the key which unlocks the casket of happiness, and 
love is the richest treasure contained therein. Abelard and Heloise 
were given the key, but they applied it to the casket of passion, 
and the dross which they discovered was misery and shame. They 
tried to relock the casket with the key of renunciation, and had 
they been the only sufferers, their lives might have been ennobled 
thereby. But they owed restitution to another. The Abbe was 
not a father to his own flesh and blood, and the Mother Superior 
of the Paraclete denied her own child the maternal love which 
should have been his birthright. Abelard was a selfish, cowardly 
cur. Heloise was mistaken in her generosity. After her fatal 
weakness, and to atone for it, she developed a certain strength of 
character, but it was rather the obstinacy of a mistaken purpose. 
She had been truer to her guardian, truer to herself, truer to Ab- 
elard and their child, truer to nature, womanhood, and God, if she 
had not immolated herself upon the altar of sacrifice. 

In the Jewish part of the cemetery is the Rothschild Memorial 
Chapel, and in this part of the cemetery is also interred Rachel, 
who entranced the world with her mirrored reflection of its pas- 
sions and emotions. 

N'ot far from the monument of Rossini, we found the quiet 
resting place of Alfred de Musset, the poet, and Beranger, the 
national song writer, both of whom died in the same year, 1857. 

A recumbent statue marks the burial place of Faure, while a 
fine memorial chapel with bronze doors is erected to the memory 
of Theirs. His sarcophagus is in the open crypt, where there is 
also a group of statuary. 

How many of these men won success? What constitutes 
success? Is it an integral number, of which ability, industry, 
fortune, and fame, are each quarter fractions? Or is it the happi- 
ness which proceeds from the trinity of love, honor, and truth? 
Many of these lives contain dark chapters, the blurred pages of 
which we would gladly omit. Insomuch as they fell short of their 
highest possible attainment, they achieved but partial success, 
Endowed above their fellows, they have won immortality as they 
gave of their very best. A single blot on the escutcheon has oft 

43 



tarnished the fame, which might have been effulgent with light. 
Renown is not always true success, and misfortune or obscurity 
may not necessarily be synonymous with failure. Time is our 
passport to eternity. We must use it, not lose it, would we in- 
sure a safe entry into the haven. Who knows but that the most 
glorious name of all who slumber here, is a name unwritten and 
unheard? 

"Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood." 



44 



V. 
VERSAILLES. 

I have interviewed Joshua's note book for data on this subject, 
and found that he had thriftily and economically disposed of it, in 
eleven compactly written lines. He offers small encouragement 
to the plagiarist, and I am obliged to fall back upon Pope Bae- 
deker, and my own resources. All of my cocksure information 
emanates from the infallible "pope", while any anachronisms may 
be attributed to an agile imagination, or a defective memory, or 
to unscrupulous guides, who took an unfair advantage of our 
credulity and ignorance. Unfortunately, I have forgotten which 
is which. It will give you something to do to look it up. It is 
right to encourage industry. 

If you choose to accompany us, you must ride on top of a bus, 
from Pont de Alma, and unless you are obtuse, or hopelessly 
aristocratic, you will have the time of your life. Nothing could 
be finer than an early morning ride through the streets of Paris — 
the air fragrant with hyacinths and daffodils, the trees garbed in 
the delicate tints of early spring, green, pink, lavender, and pur- 
ple; the houses with their long windows wide open, affording 
kinetoscopic glimpses of the apartments and their occupants ; the 
markets, the Halles Dames, the men with pushcarts, and the 
countless things of "all sorts and conditions" ; dickering, and bar- 
gaining, buying, selling, filching, and eating ; carrying huge loaves 
of bread, and scrambling for the loaves that fall by the wayside. 
French bread is baked by the mile, and sold by the metre. (Dis- 
tinctly, non-Baedeker.) 

Fruits, little cakes, and other foods, may be ensconced within 
bags made of old newspapers, but bread is bread, and needs no 
protection. It never is concealed from the vulgar gaze by a wrap- 
ping of any description. Its cuticle is impervious to harm. It 
may totter recklessly into the gutter, or fall unwarily into a group 
of fighting dogs, but it is picked up and brushed with a soiled 
coat sleeve or handkerchief, or possibly rubbed on greasy trou- 

45 



sers, without losing any of its social prestige, and is received with 
open mouths into the homes of the rich and poor alike. That is 
true democracy. 

We had heard bread called the staff of life, but supposed that 
the phrase was purely figurative. In Versailles, however, we had 
an object lesson, which showed us the literal significance of the 
term. A boy emerged from a shop with two loaves, each about 
a yard long and he utilized them for crutches, in imitation of a 
crippled boy whom he was jeering. 

Honesty compels me to admit that in some localities, the odor 
of decayed fish rather got the best of the daffodils and hyacinths. 
But then, as Joshua said, one cannot reasonably expect fish to live 
alway, especially out of water. 




Palais de Versailles 



At last we arrive at the palace gates, and enter the royal 
court, unheralded, without flourish of trumpets, and knowing no 
password, except decency and self-respect, words which would 
have been as embarrassing as poor relations, to Louis XIV, — 
the proud old monarch, whose equestrian statue in bronze, adorns 
the center of this court ; if such a password had been required of 
him, his latchkey to his own palace might have proved to be a 
useless incumbrance. Modesty, decency, and self-respect were 
almost meaningless terms in those days. Indeed, they had long 

46 



been defunct at court, having expired from inanition, caused by 
sheer loneliness, and nostalgia. 

There are sixteen groups of statuary in this court, some of 
which once stood on the Pont de la Concorde, but were moved 
hither in 1837. Among others, I noted those of Cardinal Rich- 
elieu, (minister, or dictator of Louis XIII) and Generals Conde 
and Turenne. This spacious court is well named the Cour d'Hon- 
neur, and it forms a noble approach to the vast palace which once 
housed the king and his parasites — 10,000 people, a veritable city 
— wherein many of the dwellers occupied apartments consisting 
of several rooms. 

This was formerly an hunting lodge of Louis XIII, but under 
his successor, it became the most magnificent palace in the world, 
and Louis XIV spared neither expense nor labor (of his sub- 
jects) for its improvement. He impoverished the nation, and like 
an inhuman brute, he worked his people to their death. They fell 
in the harness, discouraged, famishing, shrunken with disease, 
and dying, — that the king might have where to lay his worthless 
head, and that his mistresses might have grand halls in which to 
flourish their trains. 

Louis XIV judiciously destroyed his account book, but the 
expense he incurred was probably not less than two hundred 
million dollars. Thirty-six thousand people were employed at 
starvation wages, and as death depleted the ranks, the corpses 
were removed in carts, while the living arrived on foot to fill 
in the gaps. Only a Standard Oil Trust, or large Railway Cor- 
poration can approximate to a proper appreciation of these 
figures. God grant that the power of a bureaucracy, corporation, 
union, or single individual — czar or Steel Trust magnate, may 
never again become so paramount, so absolute, so despotic, that 
history will repeat itself in another revolution like that of the 
French. 

Beyond the Court of Honor is the Marble Court, which was 
a part of the Louis XIII palace. Here Marie Antoinette, stand- 
ing in the gallery above, with the dauphin in her arms, bravely 
faced the infuriated mob, who sought her life on that memorable 

47 



night in October, 1789. Here King William of Prussia was pro- 
claimed Emperor of Germany in 1871. 

It is almost impossible to obtain an adequate idea of the 
enormous size of this palace. The fagade on the park is nearly 
1,900 feet long, and contains 375 window openings. Think of 
the spring house-cleaning! Think of a single room 400 feet 
long, — perhaps the length of the block in which you live. It is 
only by comparison that one can realize the dimensions here. 
Everything is on such a gigantic scale, and proportions are so 
perfect, that one will walk miles without knowing it, or suspect- 
ing that he is tired. 

The Gallerie of Battailes is almost 400 feet long, and its walls 
are decorated with immense canvasses, depicting the victories of 
France. At least, we did not recognize any which recalled a de- 
feat, although I confess that we did not examine all. There is 
one which caused our pulses to throb with patriotic pride. It 
was the "Siege of Yorktown in America, conducted by Generals 
Rochambeau and Washington." Yes, and the Father of His 
Country is actually represented in the picture ; not too prominent- 
ly, of course, but he is there. Let us appreciate the international 
courtesy which pictures him in a French victory. It is pleasing 
to have Washington recognized — even in the background — as one 
who did what he could. We are greatly indebted to La Fayette, 
Rochambeau, De Grasse, and other noble Frenchmen, who held 
up our hands on the day of battle. We honor them. But we re- 
vere Washington above all. 

There are miles, and miles, and miles of paintings in this pal- 
ace. Most of them are historic, — huge battle scenes, represent- 
ing carnage and destruction, with flashing swords, prancing 
horses, and bursting shells, amid an atmosphere of smoke which 
recalls Pittsburgh or Chicago at their worst. 

Some of the portraits are really interesting, notably those by 
Regnault, and the French princesses by Nattier. It is interesting 
to study portraits, busts and statues. They make a character seem 
real. In the Musee Carnavalet (once the home of Madame de 
Sevigne) are portraits of Marat, Danton, and Robespierre, which 
cannot fail to impress one. Beautiful portraits of the famous 
letter writer, and her daughter are also found here. A good por- 



4S 



trait is a valuable index to character study, and a chronological 
series of portraits of a noted individual is an acquisition not to 
be despised. We sometime discover an expression in portraits, 
which elucidates some hitherto inexplicable trait of character. 

It is astonishing to see how many people are apparently in- 
terested in armorial bearings. We frequently encounter the same 
people in different places, studying coats of arms, which have 
no attraction for us however, and though there are acres of them 
at Versailles, we pass blithely by on the other side. 

The Gallerie de Glaces is another imposing hall, 240 feet long, 
elaborately decorated by Lebrun. It has long arched windows 
along its entire length, through which one commands a view of 
the magnificent stretch of park, beautiful fountains and statuary, 
the Tapis Vert or Carpet of Green, (a quarter of a mile long), 
and the Grand Canal, a mile long, and away beyond is the ocean 
— apparently. This was one of the thousands of extravagant 
notions of Louis XIV, and his landscape gardener succeeded in 
creating a marvelous impression. One imagines that the artificial 
lake, which he views from this hall, broadens into the open sea. 
The sparkling blue waters merge into the deeper green of the 
verdure, until the grey line of the horizon marks the firmament as 
an ocean, and the fleecy clouds are ships sailing upon its bosom. 
The optical illusion is perfect. 

On the wall, opposite the windows in this Gallerie, are massive 
mirrors, reflecting the beautiful landscape without. Gallerie de 
Glaces — Hall of Mirrors — it is appropriately named. How Marie 
Antoinette must have loved it, as she surveyed the arch of her in- 
step, and coquetted with her fan. 

During the Franco-Prussian war, the Prussian troops were 
quartered here. Indeed, they used the palace as a military hospi- 
tal. The pictures were covered, and it is greatly to the credit of 
the Prussian troops, that they were not mutilated or defaced, I 
fear that my country women would have pieced them into crazy 
bedquilts. 

Here, in this Hall of Glasses, William of Prussia was pro- 
claimed Emperor of Germany. I remember that I said that this 
event occurred in the Cour de Marbre, but the guides in each 
place said that it transpired there, and I presume that it did. It 

49 



was probably proclaimed in several thousand other places. Talk 
is cheap, and victory is seldom suffocated with silence. 

From the windows of the salon de la Paix, which we enter 
from the Hall of Mirrors, one may see the beautiful Orangery 
designed by Mansard in 1685, and beyond is the Wood of Sator3 r , 
and the Swiss Lake. It is related that Louis XIV, in looking 
from these windows one day, remarked that a lake was the only 
thing necessary to render the landscape perfect in this direction. 
No sooner said than done. It sounds like a fairy tale, (and it 
may be), but the next morning this sparkling sheet of water, 
1,312 feet long, and 460 feet wide, greeted the vision of the king. 
"There were giants in those irreclaimable days," and there were 
kings, whose slightest wish was a command. The nod of Jupiter 
descended down the line. I do not doubt the story in the least. 
Indeed, we have incontestible proof of its veracity. The lake is. 
there. According to Dumas, it is the one upon which Philippe de 
Taverny skated, about one hundred years afterward, propelling 
Marie Antoinette in her sledge. 

There was a tremendous expenditure of life and money to 
bring water to Versailles. Louis XIV had an aqueduct construct- 
ed from Maintenon, 31 miles away, to bring water from the Eure ; 
but the great mortality, coupled with a war, caused an interrup- 
tion of the work. The hydraulic machine, constructed by a Dutch- 
man at Marly in 1685, at an expense of four million francs, was 
utilized to force water into the lakes and fountains at Versailles. 

Leaving the salon de la Paix, we visited the apartments of 
the Grande Monarque (Louis XIV) and viewed a waxen image 
of his head, wearing the identical wig, which had covered a mul- 
titude of sins during the period when it had graced the head of its 
owner ; we also saw his bed with its gorgeous trappings. I'm 
glad that I saw his bed. It gave me a more kindly feeling for 
the dissolute, blood-sucking old tyrant. I remembered that he 
had slept there, and while he slept, he was comparatively harm- 
less ; and in his lonely old age, despised, and forsaken, even by 
the hypocritical old Madame de Maintenon, he had died there. 
Let us not forget that, when we are rendering thanks. Homage, 
to whom homage is due. His miserable life was crowned by one 

50 



merciful, albeit a tardy and involuntary act. He died. Of course 
he left it until the very last, but he did it. 

"The evil that men do lives after them, 
The good is oft interred with their bones." 

Louis XV too, had his fling here, and if possible, he was a 
more disreputable old reprobate than his predecessor. He out- 
Louised Louis. The suite of Louis XV contains the beautiful 
decorations by Verbercht, and a fine collection of clocks. The 
guide told us that Louis XV is also dead, (I think Baedeker con- 
firms that statement), and he showed us the exact spot in which 
he "shuffled off this mortal coil" ; and we wept not, for there was 
no sorrow in our souls. 

We also saw the rooms overlooking the Stag's Court, which 
had been assigned to Madam du Barry. We held our noses, and 
hurried through. Louis XVI had worked at lock making there, 
but even the fact that royalty had been engaged in some useful 
occupation there, had failed to purify the atmosphere. 

The cabinets of Marie Antoinette are interesting; her rooms 
are tiny, petit, and the carved woodwork was a delicate pearl tint. 
Joshua disputes that color, but he refuses to supply a plausible 
substitute. Therefore I let it stand, because pearl color is com- 
prehensive, neutral, and non-committal, and besides it was pearl. 
The guide showed us where three guards had lost their lives in 
defending Marie Antoinette, on that fearful night in October, 
1789. He exhibited considerable histrionic ability as he conducted 
us through the passages, showing us how Marie had fled to 
the apartments of Louis XVI on that awful night, which proved 
to be the last, I think, that they ever spent together. Pausing at 
each door to listen, and distorting his countenance with imaginary 
fright, our guide's pantomime was tragic and effective. We ap- 
portioned our fee accordingly. 

He showed us the mirror in which Marie was foretold her fate, 
when she beheld the reflection of her head separated from her 
body. He tried to place me in the same position, at a similar 
angle, so that I could see how the combination worked. But the 
exhibition (or my head) failed to come off. Our guide shrugged 
his shoulders ominously, and I know that he believes that I was 

51 



born to be hanged, rather than beheaded. The glass, however, 
distinctly revealed a wilted collar, and a disarranged tie, and I 
improved the opportunity to adjust my hat. 

I wasted considerable sentiment in the Royal Chapel. We 
asked the guide if it was the one in which Bossuet and Bourda- 
loue had preached. He shrugged his shoulders as only a French- 
man can, and replied "Oui". Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette 
were married here, and there is a beautiful carpet in the chapel, 
dating from that period. It was not upon royalty however, that 
I meditated, and wasted sentiment. 

I thought of Bossuet, the dauntless Eagle of Meaux. I heard 
him fearlessly attack the vices of his royal auditors, and the 
sound was music in my ears. I heard him arraign Montaigne, 
the infidel of the preceding century, and thus address the fol- 
lowing peroration : "Therefore, sensual man, you who renounce 
the future life, because you fear its just punishment, do not 
longer hope for nothingness ; no, no, hope for it no longer ; wish 
for it, or wish for it not; your eternity is assured you." 

Eagle was a fit appellation for the man, for he possessed 
characteristics of which the eagle is typical. The bird which 
represents freedom, strength and independence, is likewise a bird 
of prey. Bossuet, too, preyed, and — prayed. The charming and 
rarely gifted Fenelon was a victim whom he persecuted, on whom 
he preyed, and for whom he possibly prayed. 

He possessed powerful influence at court, which he probably 
used in the shameful revocation of the Edict of Nantes. He was 
no Pere Lachaise. He never temporized or compromised with 
sin, and his bold denunciation never spared the unrelenting sin- 
ner, whether he dwelt in hovel or palace. He treated the sins 
of royalty as though they were abscesses, and when he had lanced 
them, he rubbed them vigorously with a salve of red pepper. I 
love Bossuet for that. It required no small degree of courage, 
living as he did in an age when it was a popular theory that a 
king can do no wrong. Courtier, subject, and priest vied with 
each other in concocting doses of subtle flattery to be admin- 
istered to royalty with every breath. "The rain at Marly does not 
wet one," said a Cardinal, when the king whom he was accom- 

52 



panying in a heavy shower, offered to release him from attend- 
ance. 

Bossuet may justly be regarded as the father of modern pulpit 
oratory in France. There had been powerful orators occasionally, 
but probably not since the days of Athanasius, Origen, Clement, 
and St. Augustine, had the church produced so great an exponent 
to voice its doctrines. 

During the middle ages, oratory had languished, and the 
Roman Church had not been aggressive in the realm of eloquence. 
The history of that era recalls the experience of a little girl, who 
wanted to have her own way, and determined to hold her breath 
until she secured it; suddenly she realized that death would in- 
evitably result if she ceased to breath. In her terror, she re- 
commenced respiratory operations, and feeling the enormous 
responsibility of sustaining life, she breathed with the energy of a 
steam pumping machine. No one could persuade her that the 
process was an involuntary one. She was so strongly convinced 
that it required her own personal supervision, that she lay awake 
until far into the night, counting her stertorious breaths with con- 
scientious labor. 

During the dark ages, while life lay dormant in the grasp of 
superstition, oratory held its breath. Then came a violent re- 
action, and oratory breathed hard with painstaking effort. It 
dwelt upon the realistic horrors of purgatory, and Death the 
Avenger, The God of Battles was more often the theme of dis- 
course, than the God of Love. Some of the oratory resembled 
the hysterical gasps of a frightened child. Occasionally a ray of 
true eloquence flashed from an Abelard, or a Bernard, like a me- 
teor in the dark, until at last the night of sloth was illumined by 
a brilliant constellation of orators. 

The renaissance was heralded in France by Bossuet, Bourda- 
loue, Fenelon, Massillon, and others, but of all this radiant gal- 
axy, Bossuet was the star of the first magnitude. Above all else, 
he was a clean man in the midst of corruption. He won Madam 
le Valliere to leave the king and follow the church ; but he, the 
Eagle of Meaux, could not have persuaded de Montespan to take 
the vows of a nun. She felt the sharpness of his beak and talons, 

53 



but nothing could ever have converted her. No, though one rose 
from the dead. 

All this, and more, we recalled, while we moralized in the 
Royal Gallery. Joshua has an uncomfortable habit of verifying 
the truth of every statement, and especially if he entertains any 
doubt, as he did upon the present occasion. He did not believe 
that Bossuet had delivered his matchless orations over Conde, 
and the wife of Charles I of England, in this chapel, Of course, 
I knew that he did, and so we referred the question to Pope Bae- 
deker, who said that this chapel was erected 1699 — 1710. I gave 
it up. Henrietta Maria died in 1666, and Conde died in 1686. 
Never enter into a dispute with a man. He is proverbially logic- 
al, and quite apt to be obstinate. Anyway, perhaps Massillon 
preached the funeral sermon of Louis XIV in this chapel. 

The old chapel is in another part of the palace. We had wept 
over the wrong grave, and we were too exhausted to hunt up the 
right sepulchre, and repeat the program. We were an hungered, 
and athirst, and we craved something more material than food for 
the soul. 

We had brought a lunch from Paris, and we repaired to the 
garden, to find a refectory in the open air and sunshine. We 
found an old woman selling cakes in a booth without the palace, 
and we had not the strength of character to refuse her earnest 
entreaty to buy them, fly-specked, "flat, stale, and unprofitable", 
though they were, — obviously a stock which had been packed 
with moth balls, and tobacco, and carried over from the preced- 
ing season. They were inured to scorn, and hardened to the 
scoffings of the world. I doubt if the strong right arm of Carrie 
Nation, wielding her level best hatchet, could have made an im- 
pression upon their pachyderms. We threw them into the lake, 
and next year, when they have soaked a little, perhaps the fish 
may nibble them in odd moments, when their jaws require ex- 
ercise. 

We seated ourselves upon some marble steps commanding a 
view of the Neptune fountain, while we ate our luncheon, and 
ruminated upon much besides. When we had finished our repast, 
I lifted up my voice in melody. It seemed an eminently appro- 
priate occasion to warble : "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." 

54 



Fortunately, I am not often moved to song, but whenever I am, 
it invariably occurs that Joshua suddenly and mysteriously dis- 
appears. It is a most remarkable coincident. The present occa- 
sion was no exception. Change of climate apparently had no 
effect. Before I had even had time to introduce the "Vassals 
and serfs", Joshua was nearly a mile away. He had ostensibly 
gone to photograph a group of statuary, but he had forgotten his 
camera in his haste. The gardeners also fled — to get their dinners 
I think. They looked hungry, or possibly desperate. The birds 
too, winged their silent flight away. Musicians are notoriusly 
jealous of competition. I was left in utter solitude, and it was 
very good. 

After a while I was joined by a young and beautiful girl, with 
large mournful eyes. "I have just come from the Tapis Vert," 
she said. "It was there that Alphonse was killed by a nobleman 
of the court of Louis XIV. Alphonse was a skillful worker of 
tapestry. His masterpiece is yonder in the palace. He was my 
lover. On the day that the bans were published, we were return- 
ing from church, when we met a group of noblemen on horseback. 
One of them drew rein, while he exclaimed : 'There's a pretty 
maid for the king's new game.' He followed us to my father's 
home, and not long after came an order from the king, bidding 
me to the Royal Palace. My father liked it not, and Alphonse 
was furious, but mamma was flattered, and said that some great 
lady might take a fancy to me, and increase my dot, or perhaps 
marry me to a richer man than Alphonse. But I said that I 
would wed Alphonse, or no man else. 

"And so I left my cottage home, little knowing what this 
game of 'Blind Man's Buff' might be. 

"It was a glorious moonlight night. Yonder lake was flooded 
with a sheen of silvery light ; fountains (hundreds of them) were 
musically playing ; groups of statuary gleamed white ; screens of 
shrubbery on every side ; there was a fretwork of foliage o'er- 
head, and mystic shadows moved in the gentle breeze ; yes, and 
there were beautiful ladies and gallant knights. Oh ! — the beauty 
of it all was intoxicating — but it was an awful profanation. I 
cannot tell you the shame of it all. 

"When my dull senses grasped the meaning of this frightful 

55 



revelry, I fled from shadow to shadow, hiding within arbors, 
crouching beneath hedges, but ever pursued by the same wine- 
flushed face. At length I sought protection in the full moonlight, 
on the carpet of green, where men and women were dancing to 
strains of music. And there he caught me. And then, I saw Al- 
phonse throw him heavily against a statue, and he looked 
ghastly, as he fell. In another moment, a nobleman's sword was 
sheathed in my lover's heart. 

"He died in my arms, his blood trickling o'er my face, which I 
had buried in his bosom, I brushed the blood away, just as a 
shout of laughter rang in my ears." 

"Still dreaming of those 'Marble Halls'?" quoth Joshua. In 
his hand was the telltale bunch of daisies and buttercups, which 
he had swept lightly across my face to arouse me. And I had 
thought it was the life blood of poor Alphonse ! 

I never knew what became of the girl, but her sad face and 
dark eyes, haunted me all that day. Had her life gone into that 
of the daisies and buttercups, which my own Alphonse now 
placed in my hands? I touched them reverently with my lips, 
because of the giver, and with a thought too of the girl. 

Joshua had awakened me because the fountains were being 
tested preparatory to the summer opening, and the great Neptune 
was about to play. The water was discolored because of the ac- 
cumulation of rust in the long disused pipes, but it was neverthe- 
less a fine spectacle. Neptune usually plays alone, and while it 
holds the stage, all the other fountains retire in silence to the 
wings, and Neptune performs a magnificent solo, under full press- 
ure, for about twenty minutes. 

The Grandes Eaux, or the playing of the fountains, like Grand 
Opera, with an all-star cast, comes high. It costs about 10,000 
francs, or $2,000.00, to stage a single performance, but the play 
is free to all. The palace, with its treasures of art and history, 
belongs to the people, and the magnificent park (sixty miles in 
circumference, some one has said), is now the property and plea- 
sure ground of the masses — descendants of those, whose "agony 
and bloody sweat," helped to create this paradise. So much of 
good came out of the Nazareth of the French Revolution. 

From the magnificent marble steps of the terrace, one obtains 

56 



a comprehensive view of the palace gardens, designed by Le 
Notre, — conceived and brought forth with such painful travail, 
two and a quarter centuries ago. Here labored 36,000 men and 
6,000 horses. Trees and shrubbery are trimmed to simulate pyra- 
mids, triangles, circles, arches, spires, globes, and every geomet- 
rical thing in nature and art. The result is singularly unique and 
artificial, like a table set according to a fixed rule. "There is a 
method in the madness", — an arch for an arch, and a spire for a 
spire, but it is quite bewildering and complex, until you have 
traced the regularity of design. The effect produced is like that 
of Parisian millinery. The taste may appear to be questionable, 
the combinations startling; you may disapprove of the arrange- 
ment, and the gross artificiality, but on the whole, it is charming. 
It illustrates the daring presumption of man, and offsets the 
beauties of nature, just as a preposterous picture hat makes an 
admirable setting to display the piquant charm of a lovely face. 

We walk through the Orangery, and thence through the park, 
with glowing cheeks and lively interest, our enthusiasm increas- 
ing with every step, as each changing vista surprises us with 
some new loveliness. We had never dreamed of such beauty as 
was revealed to us on that perfect spring day. 

Here Nature was regnant and supreme. Artificial trees — pup- 
pets in fancy dress — no longer masqueraded as deformed pyg- 
mies, monstrosities, or clowns at court. We were in the pres- 
ence of true royalty. Nature's smile was gracious, her welcome 
joyous, her mood playful and sportive. We surrendered at once, 
and from the first moment were her loyal subjects — nay, her 
humble, and abject slaves. We followed her deep into the soli- 
tude and retirement of her realm, and witnessed her changing 
mood. She led us onward through noble avenues, resembling 
cathedral aisles, with lofty vaulted roofs of living green. The 
forest was a vast cathedral, ringing with the glad hosannas and 
jubilati of thousands of birds. 

Religious instincts are awakened, and we are inspired with 
holy thoughts of gratitude for such marvelous and wondrous 
beauty. Suddenly in the midst of this elation, we come upon the 
Trianons. There is a complete revulsion of sentiment. We had 
forgotten their existence. The spirit of religion has vanished. We 



57 



were prepared for the baptism of the Holy Ghost, and are shocked 
to know that we are about to plunge into a slough of slime. There 
was nothing else to do, so we laid aside our new found mantle 
of righteousness, and put our sandals of holiness from off our 
feet, and boldly waded in. 

The Grand Trianon was built by Louis XIV for Madam de 
Maintenon, as you know, and it is a very handsome mansion ; — 
far too good to be profaned by such as she — or worse still — by 
Louis XV and the Pompadour woman. You feel insulted when 
you are shown the spot where they dined, attired in a garb which 
was a fac simile of the original costume of Adam and Eve. They 
were a worthless lot. Better to spring from common plebian 
stock, than such extra brand patrician. 

The Petit Trianon was built by Louis XV for the du Barry 
woman, and was afterward a favorite abode of Marie Antoinette. 
These Trianons are now museums for paintings, brie a brae, and 
handsome furnishings, and as respectable warehouses, they are 
doing their best to live down their past unsavory reputations. 

Near the Grand Trianon is the Musee des Voitures, which 
contains elaborate and curious harness and trappings, and his- 
toric old sledges. Perchance they may have participated in the 
sleigh-ride, which Madam de Maintenon is said to have taken one 
fine summer day, in these leafy avenues, over miles of sugar and 
salt, scattered like manna in the wilderness, for the purpose of 
gratifying one of her senseless whims. 

Here too, are numerous carriages of state, resplendent in their 
grandeur. Here are the coronation carriages of Napoleon I, 
Charles X, and Napoleon III, besides the carriages in which the 
ill fated baby king of Rome, (L'Aiglon) and Prince Imperial, 
rode to their christenings. The rickety old wheel barrow, in 
which I once proudly rode, — trundled by brothers, loyal, strong, 
and true, — assumed new dignity, as I gazed upon these gorgeous 
chariots. I have seen rag dolls cradled in old soap boxes, which 
apparently got more enjoyment out of life, than their more ex- 
clusive bisque sisters, cooped up in an expensive layette. 

Near the Musee des Voitures, is the Temple of Love, classic 
in beauty, and no doubt a favorite retreat of Marie Antoinette. 
Everywhere, hereabout, are grand old trees. A delightful walk 



brings us to the margin of an artificial lake, where we see the 
toy village, in which Marie Antoinette and her court ladies and 
gentlemen played at peasant life, and making butter. We sat 
upon the bench at the mill, and viewed the picturesque surround- 
ings — the rustic palace of the queen, the hamlets of the courtiers, 
the silent water wheel, the dairy. What a travesty upon the 
reality of life, it all was ! What a memorial to the irresponsibility 
pi a frivolous, irrational queen ! Alas ! She paid bitterly for her 
foolishness, — paid to the uttermost, although she could not can- 
pel the debt. She and Louis XVI were mere children, unfitted 
to cope with the ordinary responsibilities of life, when they came 
to the throne, and assumed the inheritance of burdens, which had 
been prepared for them by their predecessors. 

It seems a pity that "the sins of the fathers are visited upon 
the children, unto the third and fourth generations". Louis XVI 
was a nice young man. He meant well, and he loved his people — 
and his wife. His worst fault was that he showed so little dis- 
cretion in selecting his ancestors, and perhaps we ought not to 
blame him for that. He was inherently and constitutionally 
weak, and he could not combat the monumental blunders, com- 
mitted by those old reprobates — his grandsires. 

This young couple received the pent up wrath which had been 
accumulating for nearly two centuries, and which ought to have 
exploded in time to give Montespan, Pompadour, and du Barry 
a good shaking up. Concerning Louis XVI, and Marie Antoin- 
ette, let him that is without sin throw the first stone. 

We rode back to Paris on top of an express train, and enjoyed 
a fine view of the city, its hills, its old fortifications, it fine build- 
ings, its towers, and the Arch of Triumph. It had been a red 
letter day, but we were too tired to go another step, or to do 
another thing. 

I fell asleep unlacing my shoes, and dreamed of a chaotic 
world in which tapestries, clocks, pictures, vases, and chariots, 
were merged into an huge conglomerate mass, while fountains 
were inverted in the heavens, and rained goldfishes upon beds of 
salt ; chairs, with their arms in slings, encircled the ocean ; sofas, 
on crutches, danced on a carpet of polka dots, while tables coast- 
ed upside down on lakes of mirrors. 



59 



VI. 
ST. DENIS, AND BOIS DE BOULOGNE. 

Yes, we went to St. Denis. Why? Because everybody goes. 
The town has a population of 50,000, or 60,000, according to 
whether you are not, or are, a resident. The conservative stat- 
istician gives a mean average estimate of 55,000. Its history dates 
from the early centuries of the Christian era. A chapel is said to 
have been erected here above the grave of St. Dionysius, (St; 
Denis) the first bishop of Paris, who shares with St. Genevieve,^ 
the gratitude and affections of all Parisians. 

Dagobert I, who died in 638, A. D., established a Benedictine 
Abbey here, which in the 12th century gave place to the present 
one, built at the behest of Suger, who was abbot here during the 
reign of Louis VII. Abelard also had a refuge here in the 12th 
century, before he became Abbot of the Paraclete. 

The battlements on the west fagade are quite distinctive, and 
were erected in the 14th century, for defensive purposes. Joan oi 
Arc hung up her arms here in 1429, and here in 1593, Henry of 
Navarre abjured Protestantism — bartered his religion for a 
crown. Here too, in 1810, Napoleon I was married to Marie 
Louisa, after he had successfully disposed of Josephine. 

St. Denis is essentially famous as the burial place of the rulers 
of France, from the time of Dagobert. Louis IX, (whose kitchens 
we inspected in the Palais de Justice) could always be depended 
upon to do the pious thing, and one of the duties with which he 
burdened himself, was the erection of tombs to the memory of 
his royal ancestors, in the choir of this cathedral. The precedent 
which he thus established, continued down to 1610, mausoleums 
being erected to kings and queens of every sort — good, bad, and 
indifferent. During the Revolution, these were regarded as chief- 
ly valuable for old junk, and were thus disposed of, for their lead 
and bronze. The defunct kings, however, were not even good for 
junk, and so their bodies were summarily bestowed in trenches 
in the vicinity. 

60 



In 1817, at the order of Louis XVIII, the monuments were 

restored and rejuvenated, and there was a moving day procession 

of royal bones into the crypt of the cathedral. There are at least 

fifty tombs, besides statues, monuments, and other memorials in 

lithe shape of bas reliefs, urns, etc. 

With the combined aid of Pope Baedeker, and labels, we suc- 
ceeded in locating the tombs of all those with whom we were 
acquainted, and in whose palaces we had made ourselves at home 
| — such as Dagobert, St. Louis and his family, Henri II, and Cath- 
erine de Medici. The latter two have rather more than their 
share of tombs, one of which is very elaborate. The king and 
queen are represented by kneeling bronze figures, and also by 
marble statues in the nude, which may have set the pace for 
modern French art, and there are several other figures standing 
around, staring at them. In her old age, Catherine entertained 
some doubts concerning the propriety of this tomb, and so she 
erected another sepulchre, where two marble effigies, wearing 
clothes, recline soberly upon a bronze couch. 

One of the chapels within the cathedral has a mosaic marble 
floor, dating from the 12th century, which is very interesting. The 
tomb of Fredegonde is curious, and is said to date from the 
period of her death, which occurred 597. There is no particular 
evidence that such is the case, and if your conscience would rest 
easier, there is no obstacle to prevent pushing the date forward 
four or five centuries. Even then, you will find comparatively 
few, (especially women) who will be willing to acknowledge that 
they remember the occasion. This tomb has a mosaic of bits of 
copper and colored marbles. The figure of the queen is quite 
primitive, and the hands and feet are outlined with the mosaic. 
We managed to get along excellently well with all of these mar- 
ble effigies. They did not interfere with us, and we were careful 
not to offend them by speaking in French. 

We surprised one of our fellow voyagers surveying these 
tombs. "Say", he said cordially, after he had given us the high 
handshake, "I'd have climbed that fence, and dodged behind one 
of those stone dummies, if you had given me time. Honest, I'm 
ashamed to be caught training in this set, — hobnobbing with 
these old duffers". His wife looked injured and shocked, Indeed, 

61 



that is the expression which her countenance habitually wore. 
Her husband never gave her the opportunity to change it. 

We had waited within the cathedral an hour before the verger 
appeared, and it then took him so long to expatiate upon the 
microscopic and imaginary virtues of this royal rabble, that we 
were ready to faint, because of the stifling atmosphere. Our be- 
ings were permeated with the poison of vitiated air. We would 
have bartered glass eyes, and false teeth, for a thimbleful of fresh 
air. Garlic and Limburger cheese are heavenly incense, compared 
with this left over smell. The whole town is saturated with 
smell, but within the cathedral, it is an extra, double distilled, con- 
centrated extract. Talk about the economy of a single drop of 
genuine attar of roses, with its fine enduring qualities. In St. 
Denis, they have reduced the principle of perpetuating smell to 
such an exact science, that we shall carry it to our graves, — even 
though we pass the remnant of our three score years and ten in 
a fumigatory. Like the blood stains on the little hand of Lady 
Macbeth, it will not wash out. 

I once knew a blind man who journeyed across the continent 
to see Niagara Falls. We had come five thousand miles for the 
purpose of ascertaining if the bones of all those "duffers" were 
properly and finally disposed of. And then, within a few feet of 
the goal, our wills became asphyxiated, and we were overcome 
by the strength of the argument of smell. 

I simply could not bring myself to enter that crypt. The guide 
thought that Madam was afraid of ghosts, and hastened to assure 
us that there was no danger in the daytime. Joshua replied that 
if there were any well aired ghosts, which could be recommended 
as such, we should be pleased to pay them our respects. The con- 
tract was not made, and we went our way. We were not spirited 
away by ghosts, — they simply scent us out. We fled in such 
haste, that we left an umbrella, and two handkerchiefs. The lat- 
ter can be used by some misguided pilgrim to bandage his nose, 
and wipe his weeping eyes. We trust that the umbrella has been 
raised over the nude figures of Henri II, and his sensitive spouse. 
Anything which could bring a blush to the superb cheek of Cath- 
erine de Medici, is worthy of protection. 

We had determined not to visit the Catacombs, or the Sew- 

62 



ers. Why did we go to St. Denis? I wish that we had waited 
till the resurrection. There will be something doing then. The 
royal bones must now be as badly mixed up as pi type, and it 
would be interesting, to see them assort themselves, "decently 
and in order", in their proper places. 

Louis XIV used to reside at St. Germain, and as he could not 
endure its close proximity to St. Denis, with its uncomfortable 
reminder of the royal sepulchre, which he must sometime occupy, 
he built the magnificent palace at Versailles, and betook himself 
to its less gloomy atmosphere. 

Let us, too, seek a place of gayety and life. It is a joyous 
spring day. We will spend it in the Bois de Boulogne, a splendid 
park of 2,250 acres — three and a half square miles. Its primeval 
forest was once the haunt of outlaws, and fugitives from justice. 
Here duels were fought with more or less privacy and fatality, 
and here many discouraged souls have voluntarily left their weary 
bodies. 

When we arrived at the entrance of the park, we disposed of 
ourselves in a queer little tram, drawn by a team of pygmy 
horses. The car was of miniature size, so small in fact, that our 
feeling of self-importance was utterly annihilated, when we found 
that we were able to get into it. The sides were open, and I 
swung my feet outside, as I used to swing them from the old 
pew in my church-going childhood. Joshua either doubled him- 
self into sections, like a folding ladder, or dragged his feet along 
the ground. It was a novel experience, and great fun. I suspect 
that we enjoyed ourselves more than did those whom we saw in 
fashionable costumes, driving in stylish carriages, or automobiles, 
through the beautiful avenues of the park. At least, we were not 
bored to death with ennui, as they often appeared to be. Is ennui 
the trade mark of aristocracy? 

Apparently the happiest and most enthusiastic people whom 
we saw in the Bois de Boulogne, were not the ones whose liv- 
eried servants condescended to bestow withering glances upon 
perspiring pedestrians. They were the good natured people on 
foot, laughing and chatting volubly, who seemed to consider life 
worth the effort, — or rather, seemed to be unconscious that it in- 
volved an effort. To reach the Lakes by a short cut, we were 

63 



led through a tract of woods, and there in the underbrush, we 
saw men, women, and children, gathering wild flowers, with a 
zest which was refreshing. 

The Lakes and their surroundings, were very beautiful. A 
fleet of ducks, and other water fowl, gaily decked in true Parisian 
style, lazily swung at anchor upon the margin of the lake. The 
color line is less distinctly drawn in Europe than in our own land. 
Therefore the majestic black swans float upon the water with a 
grace as stately and dignified, as that of the Caucassian variety, 
and there is no discrimination in the distribution of crumbs — so- 
cial or otherwise. 

We walked the length of the larger and smaller lakes, pausing 
to rest wherever the panoramic view was especially attractive, 
or where we espied people who were particularly amusing. We 
found a picturesque ravine, a lovely grotto, and a waterfall. Art 
is very closely allied to nature in the Bois de Boulogne, or rather 
they are wedded, and the union is an ideal one. 

The Botanical and Zoological Gardens cover an area of about 
fifty acres, and the flora and fauna of foreign lands seem to thrive 
mightily in their adopted country. In this park there are ostriches 
which are trained to draw carriages. I shall never be satisfied 
until I own an ostrich team. I have sometimes felt that some- 
thing was lacking to complete my happiness, and I have had 
seasons of speculation, when I have alternately thought that it 
was an elephant, a monkey, and a parrot. I have tried the two 
latter, and found them wanting. In lieu of the elephant, I fool- 
ishly compromised on a skye terrier. We were good friends, but 
he did not fill the aching void of which I was still conscious. Then 
I took unto myself an husband, and for fifteen years, I have de- 
ceived myself with the belief that I was perfectly happy. Then 
these ostriches crossed our path, and came between us, and I 
recognized them as the pot of gold, promised by the rainbow of 
hope. I argued that we might exchange our transportation tick- 
ets for them. The sale of their plumes would enable us to extend 
our itinerary, and we could feed them on our cast off clothing, 
judiciously seasoned with hat pins, and belt buckles. We con- 
tinue, however, to patronize cabs. Two things in Paris are cheap 
— gloves, and cabs. We invest in the latter, rather than the 

64 



former, because we shall not have to pay duty on our Paris cab 
rides, in New York. 

It would do you good to see how comfortable and arrogant 
we look in one of these old cabs — quite as though we had been 
accustomed to such extravagant luxury all our lives. We pay by 
the hour, and both drivers and horses vie with each other in try- 
ing to accommodate us by going as slowly as we wish. 

The only persons we have encountered who transact a 
rushing business, are the guides, who hurry us through the most 
interesting rooms in a palace. They have no competitors in the 
race, — except those ostriches. No, Parisians are not swift. They 
may be, in comparison with other Europeans, but from the Amer- 
ican point of view, their velocity is not dangerous. 

Joshua has been wrestling to obtain some photographic sup- 
plies. He placed his order some time ago ; also his confidence in 
having it filled. Since then, he has squandered whole clock's-ful 
of valuable time in waiting, until not a vestige of patience re- 
mained, — at least on his side of the counter. He talked calmly, 
and withheld such an amount of warm language, that it blistered 
his tongue. Then he threatened to institute a suit for damages, 
but the dealers remained perfectly suave and imperturbable. The 
only way in which he obtained revenge was by wearing thread- 
bare the pavement in front of the store. 



65 



VII. 

PARIS MUSEUMS. 

The Cluny — Luxembourg — Hotel des Invalides. 

Joshua says that we have been developing the muscles of our 
legs, out of all proportion to the improvement of our minds. We 
have postponed this mental culture as long as possible, but the 
fiat has gone forth, and the hour is now come, when we must 
tackle another museum. Let it be the Cluny, for it is one of the 
most interesting in Paris. 

It is situated in the Latin Quarter, and supposedly on the site 
of the palace of the Roman Emperor Constantine, 292 — 306 A. D. 
Here, in 360, Julian was proclaimed Emperor. Thus it antedates 
the He de la Cite, as a royal residence. 

The only part of the original palace which now remains, is 
the portion which contains the ruins of the ancient baths, or 
Thermes. They are constructed of solid masonry, which, (to 
quote Baedeker) "is so substantial, that the weight and moisture 
of a garden above it for many years, down to 1810, have left it 
uninjured." The roof is vaulted, and carved to represent ships' 
prows. 

The baths are divided into several chambers, the largest of 
which, for cold baths, is 65 feet long, 2>7y 2 feet wide, and 59 feet 
high. It is a safe conjecture that those old Romans did not bump 
their heads against the ceiling. There was also a swimming bath, 
and another chamber for warm baths. These ruins are intensely 
interesting to the antiquarian, and even girls of the Daisy Miller 
type are moved to wonder what it is all about. We heard one of 
them exclaim : "Whoever heard of having such a funny cellar as 
this !" 

She probably thought that the statue of Emperor Julian was 
that of some janitor, who stood guard over the laundry, and 
superintended the steam heating, and electrical appliances. 

The guide said the use of the camera was prohibited here, but 

66 



he obligingly added that he was going into the garden for a few 
minutes, and if he did not see any one taking a picture, that he 
couldn't do anything. Of course, we were supposed to remember 
that in our fee. He probably relates the same thing to everybody, 
and profits accordingly, while there is probably no regulation 
against photography. The light is dim, and very imperfect, and 
if it had not been for his suggestion, and the wicked tendency 
to indulge in a forbidden pastime, it would never have occurred 
to us to attempt a picture here. Our judgment was not disap- 
pointed. The dismal result we anticipated, materialized all right. 

In the 14th century the ruins of this palace became the prop- 
erty of the Benedictine Abbey of Cluny, which was located in 
Burgundy. The present palace — the Hotel de Cluny — was built 
here at the close of the 15th century. At the time of the Revolu- 
tion, it passed into the hands of the nation, and is now a public 
museum, containing all sorts of interesting things of great historic 
value. There are coronation carriages, queer old sleighs, fine 
tapestries, bishops' mitres, and crosiers, priests' robes, and altar 
pieces. How many nuns have stitched their sorrows into these 
magnificent embroideries, and woven their hopes into these ex- 
quisite laces ! 

The glass cases in one room are filled with curious old shoes — 
enough to speed the departure of many happy brides. They 
represent the fads of all nations in footwear, ranging from Cin- 
derella slippers of fairy like beauty, to monstrous hip boots, which 
it would almost require a derrick to move. They also represent 
nearly every style from a remote period, a large number dating 
from the sixth century. Contrasted with primitive sandals, are 
the shoes of Marie Antoinette, fearfully and wonderfully made, 
having those idiotic high French heels, warranted to produce a 
backache if you merely look at them. 

I never before realized how the world's history has been de- 
termined by the world's shoemakers. If the man who exclaimed : 
"Let me but make the songs of a nation, and I care not who 
makes its laws", had ever visited this room, he would have ceased 
to consider the influence of Hungarian Rhapsodies, Minstrelsy, 
Indian Chants, and Ragtime, and would have devoted his atten- 
tion to the manufacture of shoes. You know yourself that you 

67 



are lamblike or bearish, according to the fit of your shoes. Joshua 
says that I do not properly distinguish between cause and effect. 
He says that supply and demand are correlative terms, and that 
the latter determines the former. Now don't you believe that. I 
know better. The public was not consulted when needle toed 
shoes were thrust upon the market. The style was arbitrarily 
determined by shoemakers, to prevent people from wearing out 
their old shoes. No one wanted pointed toes, and yet they were 
universally worn, because there was nothing else to be had. Suf- 
fering humanity protested in vain. We wore them, and were 
miserable, and I am morally certain that they precipitated the 
financial panic of the last decade. 

Failing to agree upon the shoe question, Joshua and I happily 
proceed to agree upon the terms of a temporary separation. The 
arrangement is mutually satisfactory, and we part in peace rather 
than wrath. Joshua naturally gravitates towards the guns, armor, 
coats of mail, and machinery, while I feast my eyes upon beauti- 
ful fans, and jewel caskets of carved ivory or microscopic mosaic. 
I wonder how many jewel boxes were owned by Marie Antoin- 
ette. They seem to be as numerous as the sands of the sea. 

The old palace is a priceless treasure in itself. The old Roman 
walls were partly utilized in the present structure. You gaze in 
wonder and admiration upon the beautifully carved doors and 
walls, the hewn timbers, and panelled ceilings, the massive fire 
places, with their elaborately carved stone mantels and lintels, 
and the tower with its spiral stairway. 

I have not mentioned the wonderful furniture — beds, intricately 
carved cabinets, and marriage chests — I have not spoken of the 
fine collection of rare faience, and I shall not tell you of the nine 
gold crowns, the sculpture, the musical instruments, or, or any- 
thing. I spare thee. But spare not thyself. Go there. 

The garden contains numerous relics of medieval time — an- 
cient pieces of sculpture, and architecture, and is a most tempting 
place in which to ramble. There are plenty of seats, but they are 
always filled with lounging men, knitting grandames, nurses and 
their infantile charges. There are babies in every imaginable 
posture of uprightness, and downrightness. Babies on their 
stomachs, and on their backs. Babies eating dirt with an enviable 



68 



relish, babies contentedly chewing their fists with a vast amount 
of self appreciation, and babies — practical and sordid minded — 
who publicly patronize the generally recognized commissary de- 
partment, exclusively reserved for infants. There are lawyer 
babies who have begun to elbow their way in life, and New Wom- 
an Babies, who cling tenaciously to their rubber gavels and their 
rights. There are embryo chefs, making mud pies, and there are 
sentimentalists who gaze reflectively at the skies, and meditate 
upon the music of the spheres. The future men and women of 
France are all there. Ye shall know them by their works. 

The Luxembourg. 

The Luxembourg palace was built about five years after the 
death of Henri IV, by his widow, Marie de Medici, and in some 
respects is slightly suggestive of her old home in Florence — the 
Pitti Palace. It was for the Luxembourg that Rubens painted the 
series of pictures, which now adorn the Rubens gallery in the 
Louvre. 

The French Senate now convenes here, and the President of 
the Senate lives in the wing known as the Petit Luxembourg. 
The Luxembourg garden is far less beautiful than the Tuilleries 
garden, but it contains some rare roses, which are curiously 
trained. 

On the occasion of our visit here we encountered two little 
boys, about twelve years old. They were bright, manly little 
fellows — cousins, who had just met for the first time. One was 
French, and the other was one of Uncle Sam's boys, direct from 
Baltimore. Neither knew a single word of the other's language, 
— "but we're going to teach each other, ain't we, Jean?". At 
which, Jean politely raised his hat and laughed. 

They voluntarily attached themselves to our retinue, George 
being much elated over the discovery of his compatriots. George, 
though younger, was the larger, and evidently the leader, and had 
manifestly undertaken the task of educating Jean upon his own 
soil. George faithfully repeated our conversation, in English, to 
Jean, shouting to him as though he were deaf, while Jean looked 
wise, and cordially responded "Oui, oui". They were merry little 

69 



men, enjoying a sociable interchange of ideas, under embarrassing 
conditions ; but they had already established a freemasonry, which 
was apparently intelligible to both. 

The palace is now used as a museum, in which the work of 
modern artists is exhibited. It is the rule, — occasionally "more 
honored in the breach than the observance" — to transfer from 
here to the Louvre or elsewhere, the work of artists who have 
been dead ten years. Therefore the best work of Bonheur, Corot, 
Millet, Daubigny, Claude Lorrain, Delacroix, Rousseau, and Troy- 
on, are to be found in the Louvre, and their work forms a collec- 
tion, of which any nation should be justly proud. When we vis- 
ited the Luxembourg, the love of nature rioted in our veins, and 
we were in no more of a mood to appreciate anything in doors, 
than is the average school boy when the fishing is good in the 
springtime. However, we recall a few pictures by Bonheur, 
Breton, Meissonier, Courbet, Bonnat, Bastien-Lepage, Constant, 
and one by Sargent, with much pleasure. 

We made only a single visit to this museum of art, because 
we felt that we could more profitably, as well as more enjoyably, 
spend our time in the Louvre. We have not yet caught up with 
very modern French art. It seems a pity that with the well 
stocked Bon Marche, Magasins du Louvre, and other dry goods 
stores — and things so very cheap, too — that there should be such 
a remarkable scarcity of clothes in these pictures. Fifty years 
hence, I may be educated up to an appreciation of this style. I 
shall then be an angel (perhaps) and angels are supposed to be 
tuning their harps, instead of worrying over clothes. 

Hotel des Invalides. 

Perhaps the most interesting museum in Paris, to the average 
man, is that of the Hotel des Invalides — the Musee D'Artillerie. 
It contains armor, flags, weapons, and standards, pertaining to 
the history of France, and one can here note the evolution of war 
implements from the cross bows and thrusting weapons — battle 
axes, halberds, spears, lances, etc., to the deadly engines of mod- 
ern construction, or rather, destruction. 

The weapons of the earlier ages indicate the ferocity of the 

70 



individual, and deadly hand to hand conflicts; but for wholesale 
barbarity, the weapons of today eclipse those of all the ages of 
the past. Modern civilization, however, offers no parallel for the 
ancient devices of torture. We do not enter into competition with 
the rack, or the 16th century thumbscrews, which are to be found 
here. We may kill outright, strong men and true, for the sake of 
peace, but our humanity protests against the torture of the lowest 
and meanest creature that breathes. The Omnipotent must smile 
at our inconsistent vagaries, and perverted notions of justice and 
right, — the while He is not grieved. 

The armor and weapons of all peoples, and of all ages, — even 
prehistoric — are represented here. It is a stupendous and wonder- 
ful collection. Not least in interest (at any rate to women), is 
the collection of costumes, — Greek, Roman, Gallic, etc., from pre- 
historic times. 

As might be expected, the museum is especially rich in sou- 
venirs of Napoleon. Here, one is constantly reminded of the me- 
teor like glory of the first empire, while at the Carnavalet, he can- 
not escape from the horrors of the French Revolution, and the 
causes which produced it. One of the rooms in the Carnavalet, 
is quite full of things pertaining to the Bastille alone, from the 
original letters de catchet to a perfect model of the prison itself, 
made from one of the identical stones of the old Bastille. 

The Hotel Des Invalides was founded by Louis XIV in 1670, 
and completed five years later. The quantity of architecture for 
which that man was responsible, is amazing, and its quality is 
highly creditable to the architects whom he employed, chief of 
whom was Mansard. 

The facade of this edifice is 600 feet long, and it was built to 
accommodate 7,000 people, and was formerly occupied by soldiers, 
who were incapacitated for service. Hence the significance of its 
name. The building is now largely used as a museum, and for 
other purposes than a soldier's home. The headquarters of the 
Governor of Paris are here. 

The Esplanade des Invalides, on the Seine, is a spacious 
ground, and was used by the Paris Exposition in 1900. Crossing 
the river here on the magnificent Pont Alexander, one can con- 
tinue his journey down the Champs-Elysees to the grand Arc de 

71 



Triumphe de l'Etoile — the most colossal triumphant arch in the 
world — the project of Napoleon I, but finished under Louis Phil- 
ippe. 

We took this ride one glorious night, when the light of the full 
moon was supplemented by that of electricity, and shining be- 
tween, like myriads of tapers in candelabra, were thousands of 
lustrous chestnut blossoms. The delicious perfume of that night 
was intoxicating to the senses. All Paris was abroad in the 
streets. Not a vacant seat in the open air cafes. Everybody 
talked and laughed at once. When we quitted the scene at mid- 
night, the streets were gayer than ever, being reinforced with the 
opera and theatre crowds. It was a public carnival or fete, when 
the weather, in a gracious mood, played host. 

To return to Des Invalides. The splendid gilded dome at- 
tracts one from afar, as does the more pretentious dome of our 
own Congressional Library in Washington. The chapel, of which 
this is the dome, was designed by Mansard, and was used when 
Louis XIV, posing as the protector of disabled soldiers, attended 
service here, with much pomp and ceremony. 

We enter it from the Court of Honor, first passing through the 
Eglise St. Louis, which forms one of the two parts of the church. 
This chapel is suffused with golden yellow light, while the other 
is bathed in rays of blue. The dome rises grandly over the latter 
chapel. Directly underneath the dome, within an open circular 
crypt, is the tomb of Napoleon, The pavement is inlaid with a 
mosaic in the form of a laurel wreath, and it is inscribed with the 
names of Napoleon's great victories. Battle flags, captured by 
Napoleon, hang above. 

The sarcophagus consists of a single marble block of Siberian 
porphyry, highly polished, and weighing 67 tons. The Taj Mahal 
may be more beautiful, but for grandeur, dignity, and majesty, I 
believe there is not another tomb in the world, which is the peer 
of this. Admire Napoleon, or abhor him, as you will, you are 
here compelled to silence, of homage, or of pity, and you are here 
forced to acknowledge the strength and greatness, right or wrong, 
which has commanded such a tribute to the memory of this man 
of destiny. 

The Pantheon is a nobler building. It is awe-inspring, and it 

72 



is awe-compelling. Like the Dome, it was originally a church. It 
is now a mighty Temple of Fame, dedicated to the memory of 
many illustrious men, and resounding with the names of Mirabeau 
and Marat, (although their bodies no longer rest there), Rousseau, 
Voltaire, Victor Hugo, and many others. It is not the tomb of 
one man alone, as is the Dome. 




Le Dome de l'Hotel des Invalides. (Napoleon's Tomb) 



The Dome is the tomb of Napoleon. His is not the only tomb 
there, but every other name is dwarfed into insignificance. In 
death, as in life, he has o'er-topped them all, and usurped a place 
unto himself, "and bears the palm alone." 



73 



At Riverside, on the Hudson, is a tomb — not an appropriated 
church — but a tomb erected by a grateful people to the memory 
of a man, whose life brought union and strength to a nation, 
rather than disruption and weakness, — the glory of whose name 
sheds lustre upon that of his country, and of the world. It was 
a name which stood for the freedom, and not the slavery of man- 
kind. Like that of Lincoln, the great Emancipator, the name of 
Grant is written in immortal letters, because he exalted his 
country above himself. He did not imperil the liberty of a nation 
for a crown, nor pawn humanity for the chimera of universal 
dominion. 



74 



VIII. 
Fontainebleu. 

While we are on the warpath, we might as well add to our 
trophies the scalp of another royal palace. The town of Fontaine- 
bleu is situated 35 miles southeast of Paris, and is quite a fash- 
ionable resort, having a population of about 15,000, and its streets 
can boast of a greater width and cleanliness, than can the streets 
of many French towns. Its gardens are pretty, and it contains 
some fine buildings. 

An asylum for girls was pointed out to us, and you would 
never guess by whom it was founded. Actually, by Madam de 
Montespan! Who would believe it? But why should she not? 
Hospitals have been founded by invalids, Cripples' homes by 
those who were themselves deformed, Blind Asylums have been 
endowed by the blind, and Orphanages by those who never knew 
a parent's love. 

It is the sorrow of my life that I exhausted all the adjectives 
in my vocabulary upon the Park of Versailles, before I had seen 
the Forest of Fontainebleu, although I am consoled with the re- 
flection that they are entirely inadequate for either occasion. Just 
visit the great forest of Fontainebleu, and then attempt its de- 
scription, and if you are not a Bryant, or an Emerson, or one of 
their ilk, you will realize, as never before, the poverty of human 
language. 

We have seen many grand forests in our own land, forests 
primeval, and impenetrable, forests sombre and dark, the very 
contemplation of which, paralyzes the mind with awe ; forests 
which have been torn and twisted by mighty rushing winds; 
mountain forests, bending beneath their burden of snow, or laid 
low by landslide and avalanche ; canon forests, where soft moss 
and clinging vine gently clothe the clefted rock through which 
the torrent roared; fire swept forests, with blighted and bare 
skeletons silhouetted in painful outlines against the sky ; yes, and 
beautiful forests extending over hill and dale, forests which show 

75 



no scar, which have triumphed over the forces of nature by their 
beauty, and have subdued the sterner elements by their languish- 
ing grace. 

Such is the Forest of Fontainebleu, and yet it is unlike any 
other. It is itself alone, and "dwells apart". It is incomparable. 
It comprises a territory of 64 square miles, and is traversed by 
12,000 miles of roads and paths, — a distance nearly equal to the 
semi-circumference of the earth. Nature has more liberally en- 
dowed the forest of Fontainebleu than that of Versailles. The 
rock formation, whence paving stone is extensively quarried, the 
hills, and picturesque ravines "with verdure clad", interspersed 
with pleasing water views, bespeak the prodigality of nature. 

Artists with their paraphernalia are as numerous here, as in 
the Louvre. How I should love to be an artist, and knidnap na- 
ture ; but she is an elusive sprite ; a creature of moods and tenses, 
and the average landscape painter pursues her with a futility 
which is like that of the Irishman in quest of a flea. When it is 
caught, it isn't there. 

The lake near the palace is beautifully clear, and abounds in 
fish, mainly carp, and it is very amusing, to watch their antics. 
They are capacious and ravenous, greedily devouring everything 
which comes their way, with an appetite which is truly imperial. 
But as yet, they go not beyond their own domain, to grab the 
food of other fish in foreign waters. There are fish of the old 
school, who knew the first Napoleon, and this carp fish aristoc- 
racy has warned the modern contingent, that it is dangerous to 
tamper with the territorial possessions of others. 

One of these sage counselors was pointed out to us as being 
two hundred years old. I believe it, too, — although I do not insist 
that you must. He was hoary with age, and heavy with its in- 
firmities, besides being as blind as the degenerate species, found in 
the waters in Mammoth Cave. He was irreverently pushed aside, 
and slapped in the face by the fins of younger generations. Those 
carp possess none of the filial obedience of the Chinese, except as 
it subserves their own interest. Their irreverence is almost 
American, while their levity is wholly French. 

The pitiable condition of this gouty old grandsire enlisted our 
sympathies. His graceless descendants continually defrauded 

76 



him out of the morsels which were thrown to him ; but we man- 
aged to outwit them, by dropping a bit of bread into his toothless 
mouth, at a moment when he opportunely happened to yawn. In 
his frisky youth, he had probably partaken of crumbs dropped by 
the fair hand of Marie Antoinette, when as a child-bride of four- 
teen years, she had flirted with the carp — if no man was nigh. This 
old fellow was as interesting as any old mammy, who professes 
to have been a slave of "Massa Wash'nton. Yes, seh." 

The palace exterior failed to excite our admiration. On the 
contrary, we were signally disappointed, — not with its size, for it 
is certainly large enough. Its roofs cover fourteen acres. There 
is little architectural beauty, however, probably because its con- 
struction occupied several hundred years, and it resembles an 
haphazard conglomeration of afterthoughts, rather than a gradual 
development or unfolding of a perfect design. It has five large 
courts, and ought to be imposing, but someway it is not. At least 
it did not impose upon us. It looked dingy and almost shabby, as 
compared with Versailles — or perhaps we are becoming surfeited 
with palaces. 

The interior generously makes amends for any of the imagined 
shortcomings of the exterior; but before entering, let us briefly 
review the history. At the close of the 10th century, Robert the 
Pious, sighing "for a lodge in some vast wilderness", built a 
chateau here, to which Louis VII, and Louis IX each made addi- 
tions. The present palace was begun by Francis I, and here, in 
1539, he entertained the ubiquitous Charles V. A year or two 
previously, James V, of Scotland, the father of Mary Stuart, had 
met his intended bride here. 

Henry II, who succeeded Francis I, also contributed his mite 
to the construction of this vast palace, in the splendid ball room, 
which he dedicated to the fair and frail Diana of Poitiers, who, 
notwithstanding her twenty years seniority over the king, man- 
aged to retain his affections from his earliest youth. Even the 
varied attractions and duplicity of his queen, Catherine de Medici, 
could not prevail against her transcendent influence. It is queer 
that the woman who could calmly plot the wholesale massacre of 
the Huguenots, should have overlooked the opportunity of ex- 
perimenting upon her rival with some nice poison. This bail 

77 



room is 90 feet long, by 30 wide, and has a beautiful ceiling, pan- 
elled with walnut. Napoleon III used this hall as a banqueting 
room. 

Henry IV also added a magnificent gallerie 260 feet long, 
which he, too, dedicated to the memory of this same charming 
Diana. This hall now contains a fine library of 35,000 volumes, 
besides numerous mythological paintings, and curios. Among the 
latter are the sword and coat of mail of Monaldeschi, the secre- 
tary and favorite of Christina, the ex-queen of Sweden, who re- 
sided here for some time after her abdication. Monaldeschi was 
slain by her order, which aroused the ire of Louis XIV, although 
he allowed her to continue her residence here. Whatever else 
may be said of Louis XIV, he did not exercise his royal preroga- 
tive to sanction assassination, or to commit murder, as often as 
some kings. While he did not visit the divorce courts or the 
marriage altar as have many royal personages, or as circumstances 
would seem to require, still it can at least be said of him, that he 
did not patronize the executioner as liberally as the English Blue- 
beard, Henry VIII. 

That old Madam de Maintenon had apartments here, and it 
was here that the outrageous Revocation of the Edict of Nantes 
was signed ; and the hand of that same woman was largely instru- 
mental in the commission of that crime, for it was her hand which 
led Louis XIV, and it was her finger which pointed the way to 
Catholic supremacy, and intolerance of Protestant rights. 

The apartments of the White Queens — so called because they 
were occupied by royal widows, whose mourning costume was 
white — were occupied by Anne of Austria, the mother of Louis 
XIV, and had also been used by Catherine de Medici. It is said 
that Queen Victoria too once occupied this suite, on the occasion 
of a visit. Could there be a better illustration of the evolution of 
morality in the human race, than the contrast which three cen- 
turies made evident between two such queens as Catherine de 
Medici and Victoria? 

These apartments were also occupied by Pope Pius VII, when 
he was detained here from June, 1812, to January, 1814, as the 
involuntary guest or prisoner of Napoleon I. In 1804, here at 
Fontainebleu, this same pope had consecrated Napoleon as Em- 

78 



peror. It is related that the pope and the mushroom emperor had 
several sharp encounters here, and that they once came to blows. 
I have somewhere seen a picture, in which this man of war glares 
ferociously at this man of peace, while the inoffensive furniture 
looks as though it had been attacked by a cyclone, and had re- 
ceived the worst of it. 

It was here that the divorce of Napoleon and Josephine oc- 
curred. When he informed her of the decree, she fell in a swoon, 
completely prostrated, and for three hours she remained uncon- 
scious, while he paced restlessly back and forth, and anxiously 
inquired of the physician concerning her welfare. Faithless to 
his marriage vows and immoral, this man probably loved this 
beautiful, extravagant woman, (I had almost said adventuress) 
more truly than any other in the world. She too, undoubtedly 
loved him as much as she was capable, and certainly with an af- 
fection which was more enduring than that of Maria Louisa ; 
for the latter, unlike Mrs. Micawber, manifested no especial hesita- 
tion or disinclination to desert her husband in his adversity; 
whereas Josephine bemoaned her ill-health, and the dissolution of 
their union, which forbade her to accompany the exile, and cheer 
his loneliness. 

It is strange that the woman who valued the affections of her 
husband so lightly, that she could compromise his honor in his 
absence, as Josephine apparently did, should have been so over- 
whelmed, when the long threatened blow at last fell. She may 
have regretted the loss of her diadem, but I believe that love 
rather than pride was crushed that day. It is strange, too, that 
the man who could write such passionate love letters to his wife 
every day, in the midst of busy military campaigns, could have 
pushed his divorce so relentlessly, and have been so eager to re- 
ceive a second incumbent to the vacant chair of the Empress, 
that he cast aside all conventionality — as an useless garment — 
and welcomed Maria with the impetuous ardor of an hot headed 
boy. 

In the room in which Louis XIII was born, we were shown 
the first mirror which ever came into France. It was a present to 
Marie de Medici, from the republic of Venice. The mirror itself 
is quite insignificant, but it gave a severe shock to my nervous 

79 



system. No, it was not because of the reflection therein, (I am 
inured to that), but I had supposed that Paris had beheld the re- 
flection of its image in a mirror, ever since it wore swaddling 
clothes. In the tragedy of Julius Caesar, Cassius says to Brutus : 
"I your glass, will discover unto yourself." Joshua says that 
doesn't prove anything though, because Shakespeare didn't mind 
a little thing like an anachronism. For example, in the same play, 
he makes Cassius say: "The clock hath stricken three." Men are 
very argumentative. 

I don't profess to know very much about mirrors — we have 
never been on extra good terms — they are so unnecessarily, abom- 
inably, even brutally frank. I don't believe, however, that 
France managed to exist without a looking glass till 1600. If she 
did, she has certainly made up nobly since then, for the time she 
lost. Joshua said that they did have little pocket mirrors. Then 
the ladies must have had pockets. We have deteriorated in some 
respects. 

Speaking of mirrors, reminds me of the queen who had so 
many of them, — Marie Antoinette. Joshua says that I drag her 
into everything, just as surely as Charles strayed into poor Mr. 
Dick's Memorial. Anyway, she is a part of Fontainebleu, for 
she had apartments here. Her bedroom has a gorgeously gilded 
ceiling, and the walls are hung with rich silk, of the finest Lyons 
weave, in most beautiful coloring and design. Here too, is the 
dainty cradle of the little King of Rome, though we could not 
understand why it should be there, rather than in the room of 
Napoleon and Maria Louise. 

The gallerie d'Assiettes contains one hundred and twenty- 
eight Sevres porcelain plates, fastened in the panels of the oak 
walls, and these plaques are beautifully decorated with pictures 
and scenes illustrating other royal palaces. The work is delicate- 
ly executed, and the collection is exquisite. The room contains 
the choicest gems of Sevres manufacture, and is a place to tempt 
the cupidity of a marble statue of righteousness. 

The palace contains a great many large and beautiful tap- 
estries, some of which are old Flemish. There are numerous 
mythological and historical paintings, and considerable of the 
decoration is valuable, because such artists as Leonardo da Vinci, 

80 



Andrea del Sarto, and Benvenuto Cellini were employed upon it. 
Some of the highly polished floors are also extremely beautiful 
in design, being inlaid with valuable woods, sometimes matching 
the ceiling decoration. The dining hall of Louis Philippe, which 
was dedicated to Henry IV, has a parquetry floor, which filled 
our eyes with admiration, and our souls with envy. 

The palace is a vast repository of furniture and brie a brae of 
the utmost beauty and elegance. There is a chandelier of rock 
crystal of dazzling magnificence, in the throne room, which is 
valued at $10,500.00. There are splendid bronzes, jewelled snuff 
boxes, and costly clocks, one of which was curiously embellished 
with cameos, and there were vases of every conceivable variety — 
Sevres, delicately carved ivory, marble and alabaster — and 
there were also most beautiful tables, mosaic, malachite, an 
infinite variety, besides the cheap little round table, on which 
Napoleon signed his first abdication, April 4th, 1814. It is a 
shabby and pathetic piece of furniture — the only plain thing in a 
palace of untold luxury and grandeur. This table represents the 
plain man of action, or the lonely exile, stript of his power ; while 
the magnificent bed, we have just seen, is typical of the proud 
Emperor, who so jealously guarded the glittering bauble of glory, 
which he had won at such a tremendous expense of misery and 
death. 

Here was the cabinet of his second Empress, who forgot him 
in his exile, and allowed herself to be duped into dishonor. All 
these treasures have long outlived their owners. 

"How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
To him that is at ease in his possessions ; 
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
Is quite unfurnished for that world to come." 

This was a favorite residence of Napoleon I, and he expended 
six million francs upon its restoration ; and it was this palace, 
rather than the Tuilleries, or St. Cloud, which witnessed some of 
the most dramatic climaxes, in the tragedy of his life. It was here 
in the White Horse Court, at the foot of the Horseshoe stairs, 
that he bade farewell to the grenadiers of his old Guard, before 
his deportation to Elba. Because of that circumstance, it is also 

81 



called the Court of Adieux. It was here, in the same court, that 
he again reviewed the troops of the same old Guard, after his 
return from Elba, and before his march on Paris. 

He had been vouchsafed one hundred days more of his old life, 
but they were days fraught with death to many, days of catas- 
trophe and overwhelming destruction, days of fatality to himseif, 
days which foreshadowed St. Helena, but they were days which 
maintained the balance of power in Europe. 

This palace, the treasure house of so much that is rare and 
precious, has fostered a minimum of true happiness. The possess- 
ors of all this fabulous wealth must sometimes have fallen upon 
their knees in yonder chapel, and in the desolation of their hearts, 
they must have cried : "Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners." 

Most cherished of all Napoleon's treasures was the little King 
of Rome, who was to perpetuate his line. Poor L'Aiglon. Little 
did it profit that he was the idol of the most powerful and the 
most dreaded man in the world. His birthright was a curse. 

Are you dissatisfied with your lot? Review the lives of these 
mighty ones, these chosen of the Lord, who ruled by "divine 
right", and be content. I shall return to my cottage, and my 
pottage, and rest supremely happy in the one, and partake of the 
other with a grateful relish. 



82 



)V 29 1911 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



029 899 997 3 



